BOX OF BONES

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hey gang, it’s been a rough week at the ole’ homestead. My whole family has come down with a nasty little cold, allergies are hitting us hard, and my daughter has an ear infection. As such, I didn’t have time to prep a new story, though I have some waiting in the wings. Also, I’m having some technical difficulties with WordPress. I’m not sure if there was a new update or something, but I’m missing some options and haven’t figured it out yet. So, this post might lack a little polish. I’ll get it hammered out eventually, probably when I can breathe out my nose. Anyways…

The following story was one of my first-ever accepted shorts. It appears in REACH FOR THE SKY by Rogue Blades Entertainment, an anthology of Weird Western stories. A good bit of the book’s content is relegated to stories set on other planets that have a sort of Western flair. Mine, on the other hand, takes place in the Wild Westand stars a pair of treasure hunting outlaws. Ladies and Gentlemen of Culture may recognize some inspirations from The Mummy (1999, and the Uncharted video game series. Contemporary Thriller fans may also recognize some heavy inspiration from James Rollins’ EXCAVATION.

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BOX OF BONES

“DIOS, WE SHOULDN’T be here.”

“Abe, you always were a spooky fella.” Gent Barkley gave his captives a resounding slap on the back. “You boys did good. Smile now.”

“Those signs, they were warnings. Not invitations. If this was meant to be found, do you think it would have been hidden so well?”

“Boys, boys, we’ve grown so close, let’s not pretend we weren’t after the same thing. Cards just weren’t in your favor.” Gent’s smile made Will Shannon sick. “Don’t be spoil sports.”

Hundreds of feet below the burned and blackened surface of an unnamed canyon, Will felt as though he had stumbled into the ninth layer of hell. The cavernous pit spread out before them had been born of liquid fire and molten rock but had long since frozen over. Water from countless rains and winter snow melt had seeped through a thousand unseen cracks and flooded into this lost world, consuming untold secrets in layers of ice. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.

“The Spaniard was right,” whispered Will.

“Looks like all that book reading finally paid off,” sneered Gent. His posse laughed, the good dogs that they were.

Will barely noticed the jest. The scene was at once romantic and grotesque, the nightmare of a wayward Hudson River savant. Instinctively, Will moved a hand toward the satchel that hung at his side. Suddenly, a firm hand latched onto his shoulder, jarring him loose from the trance.

“Easy, hombre,” growled the Mexican behind him.

“So jumpy. You’ve already taken our guns.” Will slid his hand into the bag, removing a small leather-bound journal and slender pencil. Flipping to an open page, he began to draw. The bandits huddled in close, unable to stay their curiosity.

“We ain’t got time to doodle, Will,” said Gent. “Our fortune awaits.”

“This’ll only take a second.”

Will’s pencil moved across the off-white page as though it were an extension of his own arm. Lines of gradient lead coalesced into a replica of astounding detail. The pit was lined with the skeletal frames of ancient buildings, long fallen silent. Perched in nooks and crannies about precariously sheer walls were gaping black eyes, the empty windows and door frames of spectacular cliff dwellings. Ladders of brittle wood and snaking stone paths spidered their way down impossible heights, creating a labyrinth of frozen ruin. From high above, a single sliver of silver moonlight poured from a hidden crevice, casting the scene in ghostly light. Each steel grey line brought the page to life, somehow making the dead city before them all the more surreal.

The cavern took a breath, and everyone shivered.

“Enough gawkin’,” said Gent. Will felt the chill of double-barreled iron press into his back, urging him onward. He closed the book and returned it gently to the satchel. The Mexican smiled coldly; Will knew he wanted to pull the trigger. Each of Gent’s men had their own reasons for wanting Will dead, and all of them were proven killers.

Gent was a choosey man, taking on only the best of the worst. His posse was responsible for holdups and bank robberies across the untamed west. Some said he was even paid for murder. Will had never seen it, but he believed in the possibility. Will, on the other hand, was a cheater, a gambler, and a thief. For sure, there were notches on his gun belt, but he had never killed for money or for fun. Shooting brought trouble, and trouble dug graves. Spending money was hard to do as a dead man, and that was all Will had ever wanted, to spend money. He had needed muscle, more muscle than Abe could provide, that’s where Gent and his gang had come in. Will had always meant to double cross them but, as fortune would have it, he was double-crossed first.

Business as usual.

The winding path to the center of the ancient city spun downward, hugging the silent cliffs. Each stone step had been hand carved in the waning days of another age. On occasion, they were forced to descend irregularly shaped ladders of bleached wood, bound together with fiber and rawhide. Each man, down to the toughest, held their breath as they placed their lives in the hands of creaking rungs.

All about the black basalt cavern were etched a myriad of symbols and shapes, each helping to tell the strange tale of the long-forgotten place. There were stylized images of fantastic beasts, many of which Will recognized as vanished from the world of the living, now existing only as conjecture in books of science and history. Descending deeper into the void, images of the city builders and great migrations filled the stone canvas, marking the monumental event that had once brought bustling life to this frozen underworld.

In the midst of the mural was a scene unlike any other; a long scar slashed across the rock, a falling star. It had catapulted from the heavens above and into the hands of a complex and superstitious people. The abstract images of onlookers surrounded the glowing embers of star fire. What it was they had found was unclear, only denoted by dozens of spirals that dotted every square inch of the wall. They had built this hidden city as a holy place where they would honor the gift sent from the gods; gods whose images were suspiciously absent from the scene.

“What are they,” whispered Will, doing his best not to attract the attention of anyone other than Abe. His partner only shook his head, inching his way down the stairs just behind Will, gun also at his back. “The spirals, what do they mean?” pressed Will.

“The spiral is sacred. It symbolizes the doorway which led my ancestors to this world,” said Abe, nervously. Will could tell there was more. Abe chanced a glance at the armed man behind him and then locked eyes with Will. “These are not right. Backward,” motioned Abe. “They face the wrong way. This whole place is backward, upside down. Malo. Evil.”

“Would you hush up?” barked a gallows-faced man, stabbing Abe in the back with his gun barrel.

As they neared the bottom of the impossible stair, Will took note of the Spanish names beautifully etched into the base of the cliff. At the end of each signature was a cross. Will thought of the mural above, of what was present and what was not.

There are no gods here.

*****

“WELL, AIN’T THAT something?” Gent held high a human skull, admiring it in flickering torchlight, a vicious smile crawling across his face. “Heavy too. We’ll be rich, boys. No doubt about it.”

All about the twisting streets and alleyways of the sleeping city were strewn bleached bones like freshly fallen snow. The dried remains of hundreds of men and women were tossed about the hollow landscape, many showing signs of trauma: broken bones and shattered skulls, rib cages caved in. By the look of the scraps of clothing still wrapped about the empty shells, they had all been natives. Bits of leather and strips of stained cotton still adorned their bones, stone clubs and flint tipped spears within arm’s reach.

The ruins, while marvelously intact, bore signs of desperate battle. Some structures had been burned, while arrows and the occasional iron tipped quarrel punctured wooden supports like pin cushions. The Spanish had arrived in full force, painting a blood-soaked path as they went.

Urged onward, partly on threat of death and part by curiosity, Will and the others had followed a path of carnage through the ruins.

“That box,” Gent waved toward an empty wooden chest of Old-World design, “fill it to the brim.” For once in his criminal career, the men he ordered showed reluctance.

“What happened to them?” croaked a gunman. In the center square, they had found where the Spaniards had made a final stand. Leaning against walls or splayed out upon the cold floor were all that remained of the dozen or so Conquistadores. Just as the natives in the streets, the bare bones of iron clad soldiers wrote a crimson tale. Curved sabers had pierced plate and breast, skulls had been crushed and cleaved, yet there they were, strangely articulate. They had killed each other; the macabre scene made all the more terrifying by the gilding of their bones. Each man was encrusted in solid gold.

“How should I know?” growled Gent. “Don’t matter none, anyhow. Fill that box, let’s be gone from this damned place. It’s cold down here.”

Hesitantly, the men holstered their guns and began to strip the skeletons of their regalia, piling golden bones in the wooden box.

Will knelt beside the corpse of a man dressed in finer clothes than the others, beard of wiry black hair still clinging to his golden skin. The man had taken the time to sit, as comfortably as he could, against the wall of the inner courtyard. In one hand, he clutched a moldering tome and the other still gripped an ancient pistol, still waiting to be fired.

“What happened to you, amigo?” Will’s words fell on deaf ears as he gingerly pried the book from the bony hand. The front cover, emblazoned with a cross, crumbled at his warm touch. The pages were brittle and old, most of them water stained or eaten with age. Will fingered the pages as though they were glass. On the inside of the front cover was scrawled a dedication, each faded letter inked in elaborate Spanish script.

“We reached for heaven.” Will squinted as he translated. “Heaven reached back.” As Will read he thought he felt something move from the corner of his eye. He looked at the Spaniard’s corpse, lurid firelight reflecting from its gleaming surface. The gold seemed to ebb and flow, dancing ever so slowly to an unheard rhythm.

The box was nearly full, three complete skeletons tossed without regard into the empty chest. A chest that had likely been brought to this place with a very similar purpose in mind.

“Good work, boys.” Gent tossed in the skull he held and kicked shut the lid. “Harley, Slim. You two take the box. Go on ahead, we’ll be right behind.” Will sighed, already knowing what was next. “Well, Shannon. Abe. It’s about time we part ways. You’re just too big a pain to let live. You understand.”

With the speed of a cougar, Will leapt up, ripping the flintlock from the Spaniard’s dead hand. The hammer was cold and stiff but locked into place with a heavy snap. Gent laughed as the barrel was leveled in his direction.

“You really think that thing is gon’ work? It’s as dead as the fellas in that box.”

“You willing to bet it won’t?” Will shot a glance at Abe, who stood taught as a steel spring, ready to pounce. “Not asking for a cut, Gent. Just our lives. You let us go and you’ll never hear from us again.”

The gallows man reached low, going for his gun.

Will swung his weapon and pulled the trigger. Sparks erupted from the pistol. A volcanic explosion and black smoke filled the air. The gunman lurched as a lead ball smashed into his shoulder.

In an instant, pistols leapt into the hands of killers and the world was filled with hot lead.

Will and Abe dove in separate directions, leaping for cover as shards of stone and debris sliced through the empty space.

In all the chaos, Gent ripped a torch from the hand of one of his men and sent it into the air. The torch clattered to the ground and flames raced up the ancient timbers that framed the ruined walls.

“What about Fallon?” screamed a man above the din.

“He’s dead already! Burn ‘em! Send ‘em to hell!” Torches arced through the air and burning death spread in waves across the ground.

Abe reached for the man named Fallon, yanking the Schofield from his quivering hand and fired into the dark. From behind a screen of smoke, a man hollered in pain as he fell dead.

The flames quickly spread across the courtyard, casting off the dim cold of the cavern with a blanket of fire. Will desperately searched for a way out of the frying pan. Spreading flames had blocked the way they had entered; the square was the perfect place for the Spaniards to make a stand but a terrible place to be trapped.

“Abe, we have to climb,” Will’s voice rose above the flames. There was no answer. “Abe?” Will turned in the direction he had last seen his partner. Abe stood, mouth agape, eyes wide as dinner plates. Fallon gave him the same blank expression as he clutched the bleeding wound in his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go!”

Abe reached out a hand and pointed a quaking finger toward Will. Not at him, but behind. Looking over his shoulder, Will felt his face don a mask that was surely similar to the other men. He watched in terrified awe as the gold-plated skeleton of the Spanish captain began to twitch and shudder, the gold coursed across the bones like a living thing. As the corpse rose from the ground, Will imagined a hive of metallic ants crawling across the dead man, bringing the bones to hideous life.

Abe broke from his trance and reached for the confiscated Colt tucked into Fallon’s belt.

“Will!”

Before he could wrench his gaze away from the monstrous sight, the gun was hurled into the air.

Snatching it mid-flight, Will turned and pulled the trigger.

Bits of bone and a spatter of liquid gold splashed across the wall, running down the uneven surface in molten rivulets. For a moment, the Conquistador staggered, dented steel helm sagging over the gaping hole where once a skull had been. Golden fluid dripped like wet sand about the grinning skull and the dead man began his forward march anew.

Will jumped as another gunshot echoed behind him, then another. The rest of the men were rising from where they died, each driven to life by strange metal that wreathed their broken frames.

*****

FLAMES LEAPT FROM building to building, devouring the ruined city as they went. Ice that had once locked the cavern in frozen confinement was beginning to melt away for the first time in forever. Sweat danced in heavy drops across Will’s skin as the temperature rose; acrid smoke burned his eyes, and his lungs ached for fresh air. They had to climb, had to rise above the inferno, but they were surrounded.

Standing back-to-back in the center of the open courtyard, Will and Abe frantically searched for some path to safety. Fallon, wounded but mobile, had managed to climb to his feet and stood next to them, a Spanish cutlass held tight in his one good hand. The stakes were different now, they were in this together.

“The fire,” coughed Abe. “It brought them to life.”

“The hell you talkin’ bout, half-breed?” exclaimed Fallon. Will had noticed it too, that the Spaniards had only began to move once the cold had been chased away. All the warnings, all the signs, all had gone ignored. Whatever it was that drove the skeletal warriors had been placed down here on purpose. He thought of all the bodies in the streets lying with weapons still in their hands. This city isn’t really a city at all, it’s a vault.

The Spanish were slow, methodical on their slender legs. They moved as though unsure of exactly how to stand on their own two feet. They were children, born anew into some strange and abhorrent afterlife. Jaw moving mechanically in a silent mockery of human speech, a soldier reached out an arm toward Will. The gesture itself was not threatening, like the touch of a child seeking the warm embrace of its mother, but somehow Will knew he didn’t want to feel that gilded caress upon his skin.

His gun erupted, bullets driving like nails into the iron breastplate about the Spaniard’s chest. The corpse staggered with the impact, smoke and golden blood leaking from the punctured mail.

Will’s gun clicked uselessly as the hammer fell upon empty chambers. He reached for the shells that lined his gun belt, doing his best to focus on filling the cylinder as more shots split the air around him.

He had only taken his eyes from the soldier for a moment, but when he returned his gaze, it was already upon him. There was no time to aim, barely enough to pull the trigger.

Like lightning, Abe’s Schofield appeared in Will’s peripheral. With a cannon’s boom, it fired.

The conquistador toppled like a felled tree as a slug tore apart its knee cap.

“Slow them down. Then we run.” Abe nodded in the direction of a series of T shaped windows that lined the second story of a building at the end of the square. With a running start, they should be able to grab hold and pull themselves up.

Fallon kicked at one of the Spanish, boot planting squarely upon dented armor, bones disjointing with the impact. The separated limbs quivered with some alien emotion that could only be akin to anger or pain. Thin ropes of liquid metal shot from the parted ends of a broken arm and like a steel trap, they sprung back together, reuniting arm and elbow. Whatever the substance was, it didn’t like to be alone.

Screaming in anger and frustration, Fallon swung his blade wildly, hacking at the gilded men. Metal clanged against metal as the sword sought something to cleave. Like an axe chopping into wood, the blade found a mark and dug deep into an exposed collarbone.

The animated dead halted for a moment, empty orbits staring calmly into the outlaw’s eyes. Fallon tugged at the saber, but it held fast. He tried to wrap his weakened hand about the grip, but he couldn’t find the strength.

“What the hell?” cursed Fallon, his eyes growing wide. The golden surface of the bones began to run, flowing across the sword like molten steel, defying the laws of nature as it went. It crawled up the blade, bleeding toward Fallon’s hand. The man froze in terror.

“Let go,” screamed Will, but it was too late. The gold wrapped about Fallon’s arm like a wreath of vines. He tried to pull away, but they wouldn’t let him, and countless microscopic things skittered and crawled about his exposed flesh. Fallon began to breath heavy, panicking as pain surged through muscle and bone. The gold crawled across his skin, spreading like a pool of mercury over the man’s chest and neck. The gold consumed him, made him one with it. It took control of Fallon’s every fiber, every tendon and tissue. Will turned away as Fallon’s face disappeared in a twisted mask of gold, a scream of horror still upon his lips.

Will and Abe let rip a volley of lead, fire spouting from each barrel. Gilded bones shattered and broke as hot iron spat lead destruction. A line of animate dead crumpled and fell in the wake of the barrage.

“Run,” hollered Will, but Abe was already making a break for it. Adrenaline and stark, living fear drove Shannon forward like a steam train. There was a sharp tug as one of the soldiers grasped at his pant leg, but he yanked free. Will barreled forward, not even risking a glance backward as the pieces of the fallen conquerors pulled together and reconfigured themselves beginning their march anew.

Abe leapt into the air, boot kicking upward off the sandstone brick. Straining, he reached as far as he could and clenched his fingers about the stone windowsill. With a mighty heave, he pulled himself upward and reached out a hand to catch Will, mere footsteps behind him.

Will sprung into the air, but something was off. His foot slipped from the pueblo’s surface and he began to slide back to earth where grasping hands of gold surely awaited him.

Suddenly, a vice-like grip caught his wrist and wrenched him upward, pulling him through the window and tossing him to the floor.

“Thanks,” sighed Will, as he turned toward Abe. Without warning, his partner pulled a long knife from his boot and lunged.

Will scrambled, unable to do anything but react with pure instinct.

In a flash, Abe was upon him. His blade slashed downward, cutting a deep swath through Will’s trousers. With a flick of the blade, Abe tossed away the shred of fabric as molten gold engulfed the surface.

Will shot a glance at his leg and then at the piece that had been removed from his pants. Where the fragment had landed, a pool of gold slowly spread across the floor. He looked at Abe, a word of thanks on his tongue.

“No time.” Abe pointed down the corridor. He was right. The gilded men were no longer their main concern, the fire was spreading. Tongues of flame were wrapping around the ancient ruins, eating through the dry support beams like termites through a fallen tree.

There was a deep, resounding crack and the floor began to shudder as stone gave way. Will didn’t need to be told twice. He sprang to his feet and ran.

The ancient floor was there, firm beneath their feet, then suddenly it was gone. The pavements toppled into the gaping jaws of hell, mere steps behind them; Will dared not slow his pace.

“There,” pointed Abe, yelling above the clamor of destruction. He was pointing to a spindly ladder at the end of the hall. They had no choice but to keep moving upward through the maze of room blocks and storage areas, as down sure as hell wasn’t an option.

Abe was first, scrambling up the ladder like a spider. As he neared the top, a brittle rung broke beneath his weight, sending him tumbling downward.

Will’s hand shot out like a striking snake and grabbed hold of Abe’s arm as he fell. Straining, he swung him back toward the tenuous safety of the ladder.

“Guess it was my turn.”

As if to remind them there was no time for small talk, the entire building ruptured and swayed. The fire had eaten away enough supports that the stone could no longer bare its own weight.

Reaching for the lip of the opening above, Will pulled himself up and instantly turned to grab hold of his partner.

The ladder had led them upward to a balcony of sorts, looking out over the inferno that engulfed the ruined vault. The cavern, once bathed in ethereal light, was now ablaze with a raging, red-orange glow. There was no time to admire the nightmarish beauty of it all, they had to keep their feet on solid ground, or they would soon join the army of the dead that littered the street.

Leaping from balcony to windowsill, climbing and crawling from ledge to rooftop, the two thieves ran like they had never run before. They bounded across the tops of buildings as fiery destruction dogged at their every footstep. The forgotten world in which they had trespassed was falling around them, its existence scorched from the annals of history. Whole buildings collapsed, their death throes echoing with a monstrous roar across the volcanic cavern. Fire had overtaken the streets and were now rivers of flame. Somewhere amidst the chaos and rubble, there was something man had not been meant to see, fallen from the heavens and secreted away from the world in a frozen cage.

Like hitting a rock wall, Will suddenly realized Gent had to be stopped. Those golden bones! If they were returned to civilization, there was no telling what kind of havoc they would cause. They were not simply running for their lives—they were running with the fate of the world upon their shoulders.

Will’s arms and legs ached, the coppery taste of blood tainted his throat, but he drove himself forward with every fiber of his being. Columns of rock crashed about them, biting massive holes in already weakened structures. Chunks of floor disappeared in a riot of dust and flame. There was no telling if they were headed in the right direction, if they were going to get out of this mess at all, but they had to try. For the sake of everything, they had to.

The smoke grew thin as they ran from rooftop to rooftop; they were nearing the edge of the city. The distant basalt staircase emerged from the gloom like a black colossus. With each frantic footfall, their escape grew closer.

Will skidded to a stop. Abe ran into him as he tried to halt his rush, nearly sending them both over the edge.

“Looks like we’re out of trail,” said Will. Though more distant now, the fire was still chasing them like a living thing.

“We can’t just stand here. We need to jump.” Will hated to admit it, but Abe was right.

“On the count of three.” Abe nodded in grim agreement.

“Uno.”

“Two.”

“Tres!”

******

ON ACHING LIMBS and twisted ankle, Will Shannon crawled from the jagged crevasse and back into the world of the living, his companion not far behind. The fall from the rooftops had sent shockwaves of pain through their battered frames. Will had landed in a roll, but still managed to twist his ankle something fierce. Abe had landed hard on his side, bruising his hip in an ever-widening patch of black and blue. There had been no time to celebrate their miraculous survival; they had work to do.

The climb back up the steps was arduous, relentless, but they were driven upward by a far greater purpose than they had ever had before. Lugging the weighted box up the treacherous path had surely slowed Gent and his dogs. Will had hoped it had proven to be such an obstacle that even the two weary thieves could catch up.

The sun had yet to rise above the rim of the canyon that encapsulated the entrance to the forsaken cave system below. In nooks and crannies about the cliffs were the remnants of ancient pueblos, eerily similar to those buried by rock and fire below their feet.

“As above, so below.” Abe’s cryptic words sent a shiver across Will’s damp skin. Gent was right, he was a spooky fella.

“If we’re lucky, they aren’t far ahead.” Will checked the bullets in his belt. Not much, but it would have to do. A horse whinnied not far off. “That has to be them. Has to be.”

“Do we have a plan, amigo?”

“Do we ever?” The pair of thieves smiled at each other grimly. They both knew just how high the odds were stacked against them, yet also acutely aware of how high the stakes.

In tandem, they moved forward, keeping low and darting from rock to rubble, using the brush to keep out of sight. As they moved toward the sound of anxious horses, they began to hear the gruff voices of Gent’s gunmen.

“Do you think they lived?” said a brutish man, feather pinned in his hat.

“Do not worry about Will Shannon, my friend. You saw el fuego. There was no escaping that. Estan muertos.”The speaker spat upon the ground.

“Besides,” chimed in the rifleman, “Shannon’s a coward. He ain’t never done no dirty work for himself. Why you think he’s got that indio with him? Even if he was alive, he sure as shit ain’t comin’ after us.” At that, Will’s blood began to boil. Not that he hadn’t done his fair share of running and backshooting, no one would mistake him for a hero, but to say such things about the man who had stood by him through thick and thin? Those were fighting words.

“You act like we’re somethin’ better,” chuckled the brute. They all had a hearty laugh.

“You done runnin’ your mouths over there?” hollered Gent. “Get this box on a horse and let’s get.” There was no more time to spare. If they were going to make a move, it had to be now.

“Reach for the sky, Gent.” The bandits turned nonchalantly to face Will and Abe, cruel smiles upon their rugged faces.

“Well, well, look who it is, boys.”

 “I can’t let you take that box, Gent.” Will squinted as the morning sun crested the canyon walls. “I can’t do it. You weren’t there, you don’t know what’s in that box.” There was desperation in his voice, but his audience wasn’t having it.

“You’re outgunned, son.” A wolfish grin crawled across Gent’s lean, scarred face. Four other men stood at his back, each one a proven killer. Golden light washed across the canyon bottom as the sun sought to burn away the chill of the high desert night. As a glow filled the rugged expanse, it bathed ancient stone brick walls in heavenly warmth. All about the sheer cliffs sat squat buildings of unknowable age.

“We can’t win this,” whispered the man standing to Will’s right, hand quivering above the gun at his hip.

“Abe, we have to try.”

“Si.”

“Throw down your guns, Will,” Gent’s voice echoed from wall to wall. “We’re taking the gold, one way or another. No need to die here.”

Will’s eyes settled on the strongbox nestled in the sand at the outlaw’s feet.

“That ain’t gold, Gent! That’s what I’m saying!” The hard man only laughed.

“Whatever it is, it’s gon’ make us rich!” Gent’s eyes narrowed, cool hand inching closer to his weapon, his men followed suit.

With all that iron staring back at him, Will knew full well he wouldn’t be coming out of this alive. There was no running, and there wouldn’t be a second chance; if Gent was allowed to return that box to civilization, there was no telling what hell might break loose. After all the plots and gambles and schemes, Will had no delusions that heroics weren’t his forte. He was a thief, he’d never pretended otherwise. A warm feeling rose in his gut, not understanding if it was nerves or something greater. He might be a thief, but thieves still had honor.

The warm rays of the sun inched across the canyon floor, painting each boulder and bush in a radiant light, casting off the latent coolness in the air. Will took a deep breath, studying each of the men gunning for him. Gent was fast, no doubt, but with speed, accuracy suffers. The scattergun didn’t have the range and the rifleman would be slow to draw. The other two men were itching to slap leather; they would be his first targets.

“As soon as the sun catches,” said Will, “we pull.” He didn’t need to look at his friend to know Abe agreed. Sweat began to bead on Will’s forehead as the sun took its sweet time, slowly flooding the canyon floor, warming everything it touched.

Something moved, only slightly at first, but the rattle of cast iron and wood was unmistakable. The sun had enveloped the chest, heating the gilded contents inside. Will inched his hand toward the Navy six at his hip. Gent hesitated. The box shuddered to life, the lock rattling like bones. The men jumped.

“Draw!”

Will and Abe slapped leather and guns leapt into their hands, alive with fire and brimstone.

One of the pistoleros doubled over as a slug punctured his gut. Reflexively, the dying man pulled his trigger, emptying each chamber harmlessly into the ground as he fell.

Another man stumbled as a shot ripped through his chest, cracking ribs and tearing through his lung. A gout of blood splashed upon the sand and a hideous scream punctuated the still morning air.

A hail of hot lead seared across the open ground toward Will and Abe as they ran for cover. Like the sting of a deadly wasp, a rifle bullet perforated Will’s thigh as he rushed to escape the line of fire and fell into a depression among the rocks. He cursed, wrenching the kerchief from his neck and tying it tightly about the open wound. Abe had fared better but was now pinned down behind a boulder, the sharp ping of ricochets echoing from wall to canyon wall.

“Bien?” Abe’s voice was barely audible above the chorus of gunfire.

“I’ve been better.” Will popped out of cover and returned fire. A thick fog of black powder smoke began to fill the canyon, blocking any clear view of either party. The shooting slowed, and then ceased, the only sound the continued rattling of the Spanish chest.

“That was pretty slick, Will. I’ll give you that.” There was clear anger in Gent’s voice. “Not rightly sure what to think about that box, though. Whatever I got in there is gon’ to fetch a pretty penny.” Thin silhouettes moved like ghosts through the haze of gun smoke. Gent’s men were fanning out, trying to flank and flush them out.

They held steady, silent as could be.

A twig snapped.

Jumping from cover, Abe raised his gun at the heavy-set man and his scattergun. His finger tightened around the trigger as he locked eyes with the killer. Two smoking barrels swung in his direction. The man stumbled, gun falling limply to his side. He tried to lift the weapon again, but shock and fear overtook him. Abe’s eyes narrowed in morbid curiosity.

A flint tipped arrow burst from the man’s neck and he fell face first into the sand, three quivering shafts jutting from his back.

The sky grew dark as hundreds of arrows rained from the cliffs in deadly arcs.

“God damnit,” yelled Gent, as an arrow pierced his leg. The bandit spun and shot wildly toward the canyon rim where dozens of dark figures sang their song of death.

Will pushed off the rock that had been hiding him with his good leg. Pain rushed through his thigh as warm blood poured down his leg. He saw Gent Barkley, frantically firing round after round from a pair of horse pistols. Another arrow struck him in the shoulder, causing the man to drop to one knee as his life began to drain away. Sensing something more at play, Gent grimaced and spun. There was Will Shannon, liar, cheat, thief, staring down the barrel of a Colt. Not a word was spoken, anything that could have been said was spoken clearly through the steel-eyed glare upon Will’s face.

A pistol cracked, as did another.

Shards of rock cut across Will’s face as a stray rifle bullet struck stone. He heard Abe cry out from somewhere in the cloud of smoke. The world swam as fire lanced through his side. Just before everything went black, Will saw Gent staring skyward with empty eyes, a hole dead center in his chest. Will smiled as he too fell still upon the canyon floor.

*****

WILL SHANNON AWOKE to the smell of something cooking over an open fire. Suddenly remembering the firefight, the hail of arrows, and the cry of his comrade, he shot up. He immediately regretted the decision as sharp pain shot through his consciousness and forced him back onto the bed of buffalo hide on which he had been sleeping. His leg was bandaged well, and a poultice had been placed at the wound in his side with the utmost care.

Taking the time to let his head clear, Will studied his surroundings. He was lying upon the dirt floor of a small, round hut constructed of hand-hewn logs and mud. The smoke of the cook fire filtered upward toward a moonlit sky through a hole in the roof. Finely made pottery sat against the far wall and a weaving loom was adorned with a half-finished blanket of brilliant hues.

“You’re awake,” said a familiar voice as a slim figure ducked through the hogan’s single entryway.

“Abe! What the hell happened? Where are we?”

“I told you we were trespassing. No one ever reads the signs,” smiled Abe. Just then, another man, tall and hawkish, entered the room. His raven hair cascaded down lean but sturdy shoulders; a band of red cloth was tied around his forehead.

“You were treading sacred ground,” said the man in a deep, sonorous voice. “You should have listened to your friend, here.” Will met the man’s cold gaze and fear shot through him. Instinctively he reached for the gun at his hip, but it was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, the warrior cracked a sly grin. Abe did the same. Unable to hold back any longer, both men burst into raucous laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“White men always shoot first. Ask later,” said the man. Will felt a rush of heat wash across his face as he began to blush, embarrassed at his reaction to the man clearly responsible for saving their lives.

“This is Atsidi,” chuckled Abe. “We’re lucky they found us when they did. Or you would have more holes in you than you already do.”

“Found you? We had been following your every move. Does no one read the signs anymore?” laughed Atsidi. The Navajo man’s laughter subsided, and his face once again grew stern. “The men you were with, they are dead. You would be too if not for your friend. He convinced us you were worth saving.” Will grinned halfheartedly. “No one, not even medicine men, are allowed to walk that forsaken place. We guard it with our lives.”

“The chest,” said Will, groaning as he righted himself. “Where is it?”

“It is hidden. Taken far from the light of the sun. With luck, it will never be seen again.”

“Good,” said Will. He looked at Abe and then at Atsidi, sighing in relief. “That’s good.”

“So, Will,” smiled Abe. “Do we have a plan?” Despite the ache in his chest and limbs, Will couldn’t help but laugh.

“Do we ever?”

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L. D. Whitney is an author, archeologist, and educator. He dwells in the High Desert with his wife, daughter, and two dogs. He is also the editor of the Book of Blades anthology series, and CLIFFHANGER! Magazine. You can find more of his work in the pages of Crimson Quill Quarterly, Reach for the Sky, and Death’s Sting—Where Art Thou?.

His new release, HONOR AMONG ROGUES, offers up six thrilling tales of adventure inspired by Classic Pulp Fiction. ON SALE NOW in both eBook and Mass Market Paperback!

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