Arte froze at the sound of Carlos Sanderson's voice. "Lucky guess.." He said carefully, making sure the compress was still in place before he moved both his hands into sight.
"I have to say, I had never heard of the Secret Service until you and Mr. West came along. I am deeply impressed at your dedication to your duties." Sanderson shifted, the metal parts of the heavy rifle rattling confirming Arte's assumption that he was at gunpoint. "I certainly didn't expect the kind of ordinance your partner was using earlier. I'd ask you for the name of your manufacturer but I get the feeling he'll be yet another government agent, and I try to avoid doing regular business with ruling powers."
"Oh he works for the government, alright." Arte muttered.
"Yes, you lot do tend to stick together."
Arte couldn't place the accent. When he'd first met Sanderson, he'd pegged him as a California man, but there were hints of Chicago, New York, New Orleans and Texas mixed in that changed with every word the man spoke. A con man or an actor, depending on the profit he sought, always recognized another in his line of work. The only difference, Arte thought, was that Sanderson killed for his living.
"You know the Sheriff was quite a man. He tracked Packer all the way to that mine, then climbed up above the entrance and waited for me. Can you believe it, he ambushed my ambush!"
"I always knew there was more to him than met the eye." Arte moved his hands up to the Sheriff's shoulder under the guise of checking the wound there. He had hoped to find the Sheriff's side arm still in its holster, on the man's hip, but the leather sleeve was empty.
"I don't know where he hid Alfred, but he being a suspected criminal and you being a law man, I figure you'll be more than happy to help me look for him." Arte didn't respond, still trying to figure a way out. He was certain he wouldn't get to his gun in time. The stall irritated Sanderson and his tone was deeper and angrier as he said, "You've done as much as you can for the poor Sheriff there, why don't you get off your knees. Looks like that might be painful."
Arte pulled one foot up underneath him and finally lifted his gaze. The gun barrel was just out of grabbing range, held loosely balanced in Sanderson's right hand. The hammer hadn't been pulled back yet, giving him something of a chance.
Sanderson looked rough. His clothing torn, bloody from his fall. There was a trickle of crimson rolling down the right side of his face, a head injury. Might mean his judgment was off a little.
Arte started to push up, then winced, acting as though his knee were weak and putting both hands back on the ground. He dug deep with his fingertips, grabbed as much gravel and dirt as he could and flung it up into Sanderson's face before launching forward in a low tackle, under the barrel of the gun and into Sanderson's legs.
They both went down in a struggling heap, Sanderson landing on top of him. Arte thought he saw the rifle bounce off to the side and grappled desperately for the upper hand, sinking punches into whatever flesh he could find. Sanderson didn't put up with it for long, and Arte felt a bony fist pop against his lower back, stunning him before the taught, sinewy muscle of one of Sanderson's arms closed around his throat.
In seconds Arte's airway had practically been cut off. He flung his elbows back, felt them impact somewhere on Sanderson's rib cage, and thought he felt the satisfying rush of air coming out of his assailant's lungs, but the grip didn't loosen, and his vision was starting to swim.
Arte tried to twist his head, aiming his chin for the crook of Sanderson's elbow before he brought the heels of both hands hard up against Sanderson's arm. His last desperate attempt broke the man's hold. Air rushed back into his lungs, blood pounding painfully in his head, but just as quickly another fist sank into his back above his kidney. Arte went to his knees, desperately crawling away, too dizzy to stand or run.
He heard Sanderson scrambling after him and rolled over onto his back, getting his feet up in time to plant them in Sanderson's chest and propel him away. His back aching, Arte slapped his hand down onto his holster, still gasping for air, his vision wavering between darkness and light, when he heard blam, blam, blam blam blam.
Sanderson danced under the pull of the bullets then fell on his side, his body stiffening once before he went lax.
Putting a hand gently to the bruised and swelling skin of his throat Arte swallowed, winced, and rolled carefully onto his side, pushing himself slowly to his knees. His hat lay two feet to his left and he reached for it, gingerly placing it back on his head as he heard his partner approaching. Getting to his feet Arte bent to brush the dust from his pant legs, one hand against the sore spot on his back. He straightened the collar of his coat carefully then turned to face Jim.
Arte pointed to the body then croaked, "I had him you know."
Confused Jim cocked his head to the side, then looked down at the five bullet holes in the center of Sanderson's back.
"You had him." Jim said, his lower lip sticking out as he nodded. "Was that when your face was going red in the middle of that choke hold, or before that when he had you empty-handed at gun point."
His fingers testing the tender skin above his hip bone, Arte winced, then threw his hands out. "During all of it. The whole fight. Had him right where I wanted him."
"And where was that?"
"Alive...so that he could answer questions."
"Before or...after he killed you?" Jim asked, as if just clarifying an unimportant side note to the conversation.
Arte gave a non-committal shake of the head in response, then eyed Jim. "You alright?"
West nodded wearily, looking to where Bowdeen lay. "Tired. What about him?"
Arte moved gingerly back to where the Sheriff lay, and placed his hand lightly on the man's chest. When it rose and fell with the intake of air Arte checked the man's pulse. "Slow and thready, breathing still. He can't sit a horse, and moving him at all might cause him to bleed out."
"Well if you can't get the patient to the medicine woman..."
Arte grinned up at his partner and nodded. "Bring the medicine woman to the patient. How did you get up here, anyway?"
Jim threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Before we reached the mine earlier I noticed a set of steps that looked like they had been carved into the rock. I figured they had to lead somewhere."
"You took one hell of a chance, Jim, I coulda been killed."
"Yeah but Arte...you had him right where you wanted him, remember?"
After collecting some supplies from the horses Arte stayed with the Sheriff while Jim rode to the Ute hunting village, to persuade and ferry the medicine woman to the mountain top.
Once he had made the Sheriff comfortable, Arte built a fire then considered the body of Carlos Sanderson. He had claimed his real name was James. Arte wondered what would end up on his tombstone.
He searched the man's pockets finding a handful of bills, extra rounds for the rifle and a small leather-bound book. The pages of the book were blank but for the first dozen, which were filled with pencil jottings that didn't make sense to him. Numbers with no appreciable pattern, letters that might have represented people or places or racing horses for all he knew. It was, however, the closest thing to a clue that he expected to find.
He checked the lining of Sanderson's coat, his cuffs, the insides of his boots, and finally his hat. In the lining there he found a wedding ring. A man's simple gold band with no inscription. Arte put the bullets, book, ring and money in Sanderson's overturned hat, then rolled the body in a spare blanket.
If they could get the killer's body to the reefer cars by the next morning he could be preserved, photos could be taken, and hopefully some day he would be properly identified.
As the first hour turned into a second hour, and then a third, Arte hunted down more firewood. He had already emptied his canteen, sharing the water with Bowdeen whom he wakened every half hour. He was desperately thirsty. His back pained him and his throat felt broken and raw, like he might have been developing a cold. He searched the area for a source of water, and found none, then remembered the dripping that he and Jim had heard in the mine below.
Jim had left him with a coil of rope that Arte had used to secure the blanket around Sanderson's body. Not willing to leave Bowdeen long enough to walk all the way to Jim's stairs, and back, Arte decided going down the way he had come up was the next best option.
He retrieved the rope and carefully approached the Bristlecone pine that marked the edge of the small plateau. It wasn't more than a fifteen foot drop, but still enough of a distance to make the rope necessary. Tying the line to the base of the tree, with his canteen strapped over his shoulder, Arte descended slowly, keeping the rope curled loosely around his left arm as he picked his way down.
Other than a slip on the loose stones near the bottom he made it to level ground without problems and looked to the dark entrance of the mine. Without a lantern or any other source of light Arte knew he wouldn't be able to go very deep into the shaft, but with no other choice he had to try.
He was not, however, going to go in completely guileless. After sweeping the rope over the brush so that it hung almost straight down from the base of the Bristlecone pine, Arte judged that he had about 30 extra feet of rope. Tying the end around his waist, he decided he would go as deep into the shaft as the rope would allow and no further.
He smirked again at the title of the mine, noticing once more the proprietor's name that had been painted over. He would have to check the records in town to see who once owned the property. It would at the least satisfy his curiosity, and at the most provide him with some idea as to why Packer chose it. Wherever Packer was.
Arte reminded himself that the man could very well be still inside the mine.
Stepping carefully around the boards Arte sniffed at the cooler air in the shaft and felt along the walls of both sides of the entrance. They were damp but he could feel no running water. He took a few cautious steps forward working his way into the pitch black of the mine. At each step he checked the walls, straining his ears for noises.
Developing a pattern of movement Arte shuffled his feet forward, then checked the walls, finding them more and more damp as he progressed, but no perceivable running water.
He was surprised a few minutes later when his hand reached out to feel cold rock, and he instead encountered sanded wood. Now essentially totally blind Arte spread his hands out over a two foot by two foot square of hardwood with beveled edges, fingering several lines of text etched into the surface.
The first two words were "Here Lies"; the others were etched more intricately and were indecipherable without a point of reference. The board had been firmly fastened to the wall, or rather to a support beam, Arte realized, exploring above and below the plaque.
"My kingdom for a lantern..." Arte mumbled, his voice, even as soft as it was, echoing easily in the empty darkness. From where he stood he could still see the light of day coming from the entrance, but it did nothing to dispel the gloom ahead.
Reaching to his waist, Arte rechecked his knot, then collected the rope judging that he had gone in about 18 feet and had 12 to go.
He had begun to think that he was going to have a long dry wait ahead of him, nothing he couldn't survive, but Bowdeen needed the water. He might have asked Jim to leave his canteen as well, but that was robbing a sick Peter to pay a wounded Paul.
"Here lies..." A second later the implication of the inscription hit him. Someone had died in the mine shaft, and he would've bet his salary that it was the previous owner. A mine that swallowed its caretaker and benefactor would be a haunted place in the eyes of most men, and would explain why the shaft hadn't been reclaimed or worked in over a year.
Arte had just begun wondering how the unfortunate soul had died when he felt the ground go spongy and soft under his right foot. One moment he was on uncertain ground, the next he was falling. His flailing right arm hit the lip of the hole, his left clamping around the rope seconds before it pulled taut, digging hard into his chest and back. Caught up short, he swung knees first into the walls of the hole he had fallen into, the rope constricting around his rib cage. He let out a strangled cry, then fell silent, grabbing desperately at the rope to relieve some of the pressure, concentrating once more on getting air into his lungs.
As the swinging slowed Arte was able to use the side walls of the hole to help support himself. The rock he encountered wasn't terribly solid, and he realized why when his breathing calmed a little more and he could make out the trickle of water. The very force that he had hoped to find, to save a life, had nearly cost him his own.
A process probably begun thousands of years ago had finally weakened solid rock, creating a large hole under the surface. Whoever owned the "All Mine" had likely met his demise falling into this very abyss. A deep chasm that inexplicably opened one day, and swallowed a man whole.
With both hands around the rope Arte was able to relieve some of the pressure on his rib cage. With his feet he kicked away bits of crumbling rock until he found a solid foot hold, then another. Pulling on the rope with his arms, and kicking out with his legs he was able to gain a few feet upward before he had to rest. There wasn't much to rest on but Arte paused long enough to get his breathing under control, before he began again.
He was close enough to the lip of the hole to see the faintest glow of daylight when he kicked out his feet and encountered nothing but slick, cold mud. His foot slipped, all of his weight suddenly falling on his arms and he felt the rope slip, burning his palms even as he was forced to strengthen his grip to stop the downward slide.
When he finally came to a stop he kicked his feet out and found a narrow ledge of solid rock that would allow both of the balls of his feet. He stood up on the ledge, once more allowing his arms a small reprieve, but he didn't dare let go of the rope with either hand.
Leaning his head against the coarse line Arte allowed himself time to breathe.
"Jim..." he thought aloud. "The next time one of your brilliant ideas lands us in the soup, I swear, on the grave of my sainted and dear Aunt Maude, I won't say a word."
His hands were slick now, with sweat Arte hoped, but more likely with blood. He knew he didn't have the strength in his arms for another climb. Even with his feet on the ledge he could feel himself loosing ground a centimeter at a time.
This would be the moment, he thought, for Jim's famous timing to kick in. He tried to imagine his partner arriving on the mountain top with the medicine woman, finding Arte gone and then noticing the rope pulled taut against the base of the Bristlecone pine.
"Just follow the rope, Jim my boy, and you'll find the prize. One human piñata."
One more try, he told himself, looking upward to the ever dimmer glow of the sun. Just one more try, Artemus.
Gritting his teeth Arte pulled with his arms, shifted his right leg up, then his left, pushed with his legs, pried his hands from the rope, gripped again and pulled with his arms.
The second time through it seemed a little easier. Like he had gained a few more feet than he thought he had. He was moving his legs, kicking out to find new purchases when his whole body ascended, rope and all.
No doubt about it, someone was on the other end of the line.
"Jim!?" Arte called out happily, the relief of rescue lending him an extra burst of strength that he used to pull himself up the rope a half a foot. He kicked out his feet, felt the mud, then his hands were brushing against dirt, granules of it were being scraped up by his cuffs and then he was back on solid ground, crawling forward on his knees before he keeled over. He pried his hands away from the rope, tucked the clawed appendages against his stomach and closed his eyes, letting his gratefulness to be alive flood over him.
He would worry about explaining how he had fallen blindly down a hole later.
He heard the footsteps approach and was opening his eyes, a smile of undying gratitude on his lips, only to have powerful hands grasp the lapels of his jacket and start dragging him across the floor of the shaft.
Arte tried to grab at the man's wrists, but his hands were almost useless. He kicked out with his feet, trying to create extra friction and slow the man down. His efforts gained him an angry grunt from his benefactor and a whiff of the most rancid breath he'd ever before encountered, before the man got a better grip and went right back to dragging.
Arte crooked his wrists over top of the hands clutching his coat, using the man's own strength as leverage to get his feet under him, before he reared back, breaking the man's hold and backing a few steps away.
They were nearly to the cave entrance and the unknown man was silhouetted against the light. A very thin man for how strong he was.
Arte's struggle seemed to have dissuaded the other for the time being and he stood watching Gordon warily.
Arte swallowed, his hands still frozen in position and aching, the raw welts that the rope had created around his rib cage throbbing. As he stared at his rescuer he was overwhelmed by the most peculiar feeling. He felt as though he were staring at a man from another century. The feeling came to him, and remained until he had found a way to define it, before it dissipated, leaving him with the only question left to ask.
"Alfred Packer?"
After a moment Arte watched the silhouette of the King of Cannibals nod quietly.
"You're under arrest."