Having little fear of any snakes, Lang, Maynard, Mendoza, and Allan rushed to the edge. Even Doc Fowler found his strength and moved to the side nearest the rim, which he gripped for support.

  “Fallon,” Monk Quinn called.

  Again, Harry Fallon had to choke down the bile and made himself step to the edge. Gloria Adler stepped up beside him. At the same time, they looked into the pit.

  “My God . . .” Gloria Adler whispered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “It’s still there!” Monk Quinn shouted with glee. “Heaven be praised, it’s still there.”

  The pit was a half circle that started at the walled ledge, four feet wide, six feet across at the longest point, maybe fifteen feet deep.

  “Could that be . . .” Preacher Lang even shivered. “That express agent?”

  After six years, everyone expected to find the bones of what once had been a man named Malcolm Conrad, one-time employee of the Adams Express Company.

  “The desert has its own peculiar ways,” Yaqui Mendoza said.

  The dead man remained intact. His clothes had faded from the sun whenever it shined directly into the pit, and from the elements, while rats had nibbled off much of the shirtsleeves and the trousers. His shoes remained intact. So did the gunbelt he had strapped on, the butt of the pistol halfway out of the holster.

  But the body? The body was not mere bones bleached with age. It was intact. His eyes and mouth remained open, terror and agony locked for eternity, one hand clutching his throat where a rattlesnake must have struck, the other hand locked at the elbow, pointing toward the opening . . . like he was reaching out to Monk Quinn for help, or for mercy. Only this was no longer the body of a man. The skin had shriveled and tightened across his skeleton, and darkened into a grisly brown and yellow hue.

  “He has mummified,” Doctor Fowler explained. “The lack of humidity, away from carrion. I have heard of such things, but this is the first time I have ever seen anything like this.”

  “Well,” Quinn said, and chuckled, “maybe when you get back north, you can write something for the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine.”

  Monk Quinn seemed pleased with the looks practically everyone gave him. “Maynard,” Quinn said. “Go fetch some ropes.”

  The gunman nodded and took off down the hill for the pack mules.

  “I don’t see any rattlesnakes,” Preacher Lang said.

  “They’re down there,” Quinn said. “Millions of them. Well, hundreds anyway. The floor was crawling with them six years ago.”

  “It’s the heat of the day,” Captain Allan offered. “Likely resting in the shade. Sleeping.”

  “Means you might get out of this affair alive,” Quinn said, and he looked into Fallon’s eyes. “With maybe just two or three rattler bites.” The leader turned to Doc Fowler. “Best get your valise, Doc. I got a feelin’ that ol’ Hank Fallon will need some of those rattlesnake cures you’ve brung with you.”

  Gloria Adler went down the hill for the Yuma doctor’s grip. Fallon wet his lips. He tried to think of just how he could get out of this mess alive. Grab his revolver and start shooting? Gloria Adler was out of the line of fire, but Morgan Maynard was down there, near Gloria, and out of range for most pistols.

  He glanced into the pit one more time. He couldn’t tell how far back it went. Maybe it had another opening. He could get down there, avoid all of those snakes, find another way out. He spit into the hole, disgusted. That would still leave all this gold to the outlaws. Worse, it would still leave Gloria Adler with those cutthroats.

  There had to be another way. But he would need to come up with something soon.

  The girl came up first, heaving from the exertion, and sat the doctor’s ugly carpetbag by Doc Fowler’s feet. Morgan Maynard was right behind her, lugging three coiled lariats.

  Monk Quinn took command. “Maynard. Take the stoutest rope. Tie one end around that rock over there. Make it tight. It has to support two hundred pounds. Allan, take the other rope. You and Preacher . . . no . . . you and Mendoza will use it to lower Fallon into the pit. Fallon, go ahead and slip the loop over your chest and under your shoulders. When you get down, you’ll tie the stout rope to the center of one of the bags. We’ll heft that bag up, and then toss it back down.” Quinn laughed. “All you have to do is get all of those saddlebags out of that hole. Without getting bitten to death by a thousand rattlesnakes.”

  A thousand snakes. A million. A hundred. The number kept changing, but numbers really did not matter. All it would take was one bite, although Fallon had known many men, a few kids, two women, several horses, and maybe a dozen dogs that had survived snakebites. On the other hand, he had been to more than one funeral for folks that were not so lucky.

  “Before you go though,” Quinn said, and he drew his revolver and cocked it. “I’ll take that Lightning you’ve been hiding under your shoulder.”

  Preacher Lang reached for his derringer. Captain Allan whirled, his face showing surprise. Morgan Maynard looked up from where he was securing the heavy rope around that boulder. Yaqui Mendoza just laughed. Gloria Adler and Doctor Fowler showed no emotion.

  “I am no fool, Fallon,” Quinn said. “And had you made a play for that .38, I would have shot you dead.”

  Slowly, Fallon reached under his shirt with his left hand, while his right pulled the rawhide cord over his head. Using his fingers, Fallon pulled the double-action revolver from underneath his shirt, dragging the cord that was tied to the lanyard right out too. He held the gun toward Preacher Lang, who stood closest, but kept his eyes on Monk Quinn.

  “I could use this on snakes down there,” Fallon said.

  Quinn shook his head. “I think you would be more inclined to use it on snakes up here.” He laughed.

  Preacher Lang snatched the pistol from Fallon’s fingers, and shoved the Colt into his waistband.

  Sighing, Fallon moved to the lariat, widened the loop and dropped it over his head, and then brought it up underneath his shoulders. He tightened the loop.

  Maynard brought the end of the heavy rope away from the boulder, and pitched it into the hole in the earth. It landed with a faint noise and sent dust flying off the leather bags that it struck.

  Preacher Lang laughed. “That sounded like that express man coughed.”

  “I don’t hear any rattlers whirrin’,” Morgan Maynard said, and backed away from the opening.

  “Maybe they are restin’, sleepin’,” Preacher Lang said.

  “You better hope so, Fallon,” Yaqui Mendoza said.

  “All right.” Fallon grabbed a tight hold on the hemp rope in front of him. Captain Allan and Yaqui Mendoza took firm grips on the other end of the rope, and both men braced the rope against their backs and leaned away from the opening. Fallon dropped to his knees, nodded at the two men, and slid over the edge. Rocks and sand tumbled into the dark hole. Fallon grimaced as the rope tightened and cut into his shirt, his skin. He felt himself being lowered toward the bottom. He pushed the heavy rope away, but it kept coming back to slap his shoulders.

  Above him came Preacher Lang’s voice.

  “What happens, Quinn, if Fallon gets kilt by a rattler?”

  “You best hope that doesn’t happen, Reverend,” Monk Quinn said. “Because you go down to finish his job.”

  Fallon made himself look down. Fifteen feet was not that far of a drop, but Mendoza and Allan took their good, sweet time about lowering Fallon. And Fallon was in no hurry to reach bottom. He saw the bags, which pretty much formed a bit of a hill. He could see the body of Malcolm Conrad, and those dead yellow eyes that seemed to be staring at him, and his mouth, instead of locked in a scream, was laughing at him. He saw something else about the mummified corpse.

  The hair seemed to be growing from the dead yellow skull, plowed in places by rats, likely to help with their nests.

  As he inched his way deeper into the pit, he looked for snakes. Above him, Doc Fowler called out directions to the two killers lowering him. “About six more feet to go. Easy. Easy does it. Do you see any snakes, Fallon?”

  The voice echoed in the pit.

  Fallon shook his head. His throat felt as if it were covered with the grit and the dust and the sand that rose from the saddlebags below. He couldn’t find enough moisture in his throat to spit. His boots touched the saddlebags, and he sank into them, feeling the hardness of the bullion in the pouches. When he thought he had firm-enough footing, he called out sharply, “All right. Stop. I’m at the bottom.”

  He sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and listened. Nothing near him rattled. He slipped the lariat’s loop over his head, and knelt atop the bags. The rope began flying back to the opening, and he almost reached out over his head to try to grab it, but stopped, fearing that he might lose his balance and roll off the mountain of leather and into a family of rattlers.

  He did call out, “Hey!”

  “You don’t need that rope, Fallon!” Captain Allan’s voice called down into the hole. “You just need to do your job and get that heavy rope tied onto one of those bags.”

  “Check one first!” Monk Quinn’s voice echoed in the tiny chamber of the chasm. “Make sure my gold’s still there.”

  A few faces appeared at the opening fifteen feet above Fallon, who knelt atop the bags and found the buckled satchel. He touched it softly, listening, and fumbled with the buckle. At last, he slowly, carefully pulled the dusty brown leather covering up. Nothing rattled inside the pouch, and he moved both hands into it.

  The gold felt hard, and cold, and he lifted the heavy bar out and held it up for the prying eyes to get a good look.

  “Put it back in the bag,” Allan yelled, “and tie the big rope around the center.”

  Fallon stared. “How do I know you pull me out of this once you’ve got all the bags up?”

  “You don’t,” Monk Quinn’s voice called out. “But here’s something you do know. If you don’t get to work, that wench is coming down with you. Only she won’t get lowered down easy by a rope.”

  “Now you wait just a damned minute, Quinn!” That was Doc Fowler’s voice, but the only answer was a violent blast that rang in Fallon’s ears. He saw a shadow, then something falling into the pit. Fallon flinched, ducking from instinct and fear, and held his breath.

  The body of Doctor Jerome Fowler crashed in the rocks and dirt and skins shed by snakes over countless years a few feet to Fallon’s right.

  Above him, Gloria Adler screamed in horror and cursed Monk Quinn furiously. Fallon saw Fowler, spread-eagled on the floor, eyes open, his head turned toward Fallon, a small hole in the center of his forehead. Just a little blood spilled out of the hole and dripped down across the bridge of his nose.

  “You crazy fool!” Allan yelled. “You’ll get those rattlesnakes down there all worked up. Then we’ll never be able to get that gold out!”

  Monk Quinn laughed. Fallon looked up, saw Gloria Adler’s face, her arms reaching down toward Doc Fowler’s dead body. Then rough hands clasped her shoulders and jerked her away from the opening.

  “What about it, Fallon? You want the petticoat to join you and the good doc?”

  Fallon could breathe again, and he heard only the echoes of Monk Quinn’s threat. What he didn’t hear . . . was the chilling rattles of any snakes. When the dust cleared from the impact of Fowler’s body, Fallon saw something else . . . tucked under the ceiling of the den. It was another body, not quite as well mummified as the express agent. It sat against the wall, head tilted to one side, hands—or rather what was left of them—covering his nose and mouth. Fallon saw something glistening in the sunlight like diamonds. Broken bottles. Several of them. He turned his head to find other bottles on the rocks near the bags filled with gold, and he could make out the skull and crossbones on some of the shattered bottles.

  That’s when Fallon knew he did not have to worry about being bitten by rattlesnakes.

  Getting out of this hole alive, though, remained a major concern.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Breathing regularly again, Fallon slid the bullion back into the bag, which he did not bother to fasten. Next, he reached over and grabbed the big rope and brought it close to him. Working easily now, he slid the end of the rope underneath the center of the heavy leather that connected the two bags. He made the knot tight.

  It felt cool in the hole, yet Fallon had to wipe sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and then he dried his hands on his trousers. He gripped the rope and tugged it hard.

  “Ready!” he called out, and eased away from the first load of gold bullion.

  “All right, Mendoza, Allan,” Quinn ordered. “Let’s get that gold out of there.”

  Above him came the grunts of the two men as they heaved on the rope. The bag inched upward and stopped. Yaqui Mendoza and Captain Allan were finding it a little harder to pull up two hundred pounds of dead weight fifteen feet than lowering a man the size of Harry Fallon the same distance.

  The bags came up, and something long and slender rolled down the saddlebags just below the one being pulled up. Fallon sucked in a deep breath as the rattlesnake toppled over toward him. It did not rattle. It did not strike. It rolled and stopped. Fallon looked up, but no one was looking down. He picked up the dead snake, also mummified, and tossed it toward the remains of the man who had poisoned it some time ago.

  Just in time, too, because Preacher Lang’s pale face peered over the edge. He grinned and turned toward the men doing the hard work. “It’s comin’, boys. Keep a-pullin’!”

  Eventually, the saddlebags reached the top, and, hearing the commands from a straining Captain Allan—“Pull it up! Pull it up!”—Morgan Maynard and Preacher Lang knelt at the hole’s edge to grab the leather. Fallon had to look away and keep his head down to prevent all that falling sand out of his eyes. He saw the revolver in the mummified corpse of the express agent. It was a Smith & Wesson. It didn’t appear rusty. What were the chances that after six years, a Smith & Wesson would still fire?

  The sand stopped spilling. Above, the outlaws hooted and hurrahed and hollered with joy.

  “Quickly!” Monk Quinn’s voice bellowed. “Quickly! Quickly! Quickly! The rope. We must get the rest out of the den.”

  The rope was untied from the first bags and sent down again.

  * * *

  He had the easiest job of the bunch. Allan and Mendoza had the hardest work, pulling up the saddlebags, one pair at a time. Eventually, they had to be spelled by Morgan Maynard and even Monk Quinn. Preacher Lang just helped bring the bags over the rim, although whoever helped the pale, weak murderer did most of that work.

  While he waited for the bags to be hoisted to the top, the rope to be untied, and finally to drop back down, Fallon studied the hole he was in. It was, as far as he could tell, just a hole. No exit. No cave. Nothing that might be a way to get out of this. The only way out, Fallon finally convinced himself, was the way he had come down. Even the walls were too slick to climb fifteen feet. Fallon saw few, if any, places he could stick his hand or toes into for leverage. There was no other way out. If there had been, he had to figure, the corpse against the far wall would have found it. Maybe. He might not have had a chance.

  He picked up one of the busted bottles, held the glass to his nose, and sniffed, and finally tossed it into the rubble of rocks, dirt, rattles from long-dead snakes, and skins of rattlesnakes from years past.

  As the mountain of leather saddlebags filled with gold bullion was raised with each hoisting, Fallon saw the remains of dead rats and mice, some mummified, others down to skeletons. A few other bodies of dead snakes were tossed aside.

  The rope tumbled down again, and Fallon busied himself tying the end to another pair of bags. He tugged on his end of the rope, and watched the bags slowly rise.

  Clouds were passing overhead, dark clouds, and he wondered what time it was. How long had he been down here? He tried to count the bags, but they were jammed so tightly together, he knew that several of the eighteen remained.

  Preacher Lang leaned over the edge. “Fallon!” he called out.

  Fallon looked up.

  The killer grinned. “You thirsty?”

  Fallon shook his head, although he was quite thirsty. “I’m all right.”

  “Good!” Lang cackled. “On account you ain’t gettin’ none!”

  The rope came down again. Fallon wiped his hands on the cotton pants he wore and went to work on another knot. He tugged. Preacher Lang laughed. The rope, and the leather bags, started upward, upward, and upward. The clouds stopped passing. No rain fell, yet the temperature felt cooler. Caves, he thought, usually kept a constant temperature, more or less, but this was no cave. Just a hole in the earth.

  Much like a grave.

  * * *

  He found another dead snake. Fallon looked at the open mouth. One fang had broken off, the other curved out like a scimitar. He thought, Can one fang of a rattlesnake that has been dead for years still hold enough venom to kill someone?

  Fallon laughed at the thought, and tossed the body away. His eyes fell on the Smith & Wesson on the dead man’s body, and he wondered again if that pistol could still function. The weapon remained halfway out of the holster, as though inviting Fallon to roll the dice and give it a whirl. He looked at the glasses from broken bottles of poison. Maybe one bottle had not busted.

  A heavy sigh escaped his lungs and mouth. That would be hoping for too much.

  He looked at the opening above. The saddlebags were gone, and had been gone for a while. He could hear voices and movement above, but couldn’t make out any words. Fallon tried to wet his cracked lips, but his tongue felt as dry as the mummy beside him. A shadow crossed his face, and he looked up to see the smaller lariat being lowered. This one held something, and that something, he soon realized, was a canteen.

  Rising, Fallon reached up and let the canteen come into his hands. He untied the loose knot and began unscrewing the cap. Paranoia stopped him. He remembered the busted remnants of poison bottles all around him, and he looked up. Would Monk Quinn send poison down here? Fallon studied the rest of the saddlebags. That was a lot of money to leave behind.