Chapter 2
He got his pack on and headed downstream. Every step seemed a further admission of defeat but he did not care. He felt all of his thirty-five years catching up with him.
The watch was a warm, heavy weight against his leg. He heard it ticking in time to his steps, "tick-tick," and with every step it got louder, "Tick-Tick," and louder, "TICK-TICK," and louder, "T-I-C-K-T-I-C-K."
"Stop it," Pete shouted, putting his hands over his ears and spinning around, dropping to one knee.
"Stop it stop it," the valley echoed.
A bit shaky, Pete regained his feet and started walking downstream.
"Tick-tick, Tick-Tick, TICK-TICK."
Pete stopped in his tracks. Silence.
He started walking. "Tick-tick, Tick-Tick, TICK-TICK." Within ten steps the head-splitting volume forced him to stop. The sound of the watch instantly faded to a faint ticking in his pocket. His ears weren't ringing. He heard water flowing over rocks, he heard the wind rustling dead leaves on branches. A squirrel chittered behind him.
He turned and headed back upstream. The watch remained silent. He tried turning around twice more but each time the thunderous ticking forced him to stop. He tried deviating to either side but the ticking, though less intense, directed him back to the correct route.
He considered tossing the watch into the bush and running back to Barkerville but there was too much purpose in the ticking and his curiosity was roused. He could get rid of the watch any time later, he told himself.
Here and there he came across footprints in the sand and gravel. Soon it became clear that he was following someone's trail. It looked like two men, but he didn't need that many guesses to figure out why he was following it. The watch didn't let him stop until he complained aloud that he had to take a piss, and even then it was just enough time to relive himself.
He had been walking all day with virtually no food since breakfast, but he was not yet exhausted. There was an urgency to the ticking that energized him.
The sun set behind the mountains. Pete wanted to find a campsite but when he tried to stop the "tick-tick" grew louder in his ears. "Okay, I'm going, but it will be dark soon. How can I set up camp in the dark?"
He got no answer. He kept walking.
Bright stars shone out of the mostly clear, black sky and a silvery glow over the mountains to the east indicated that the moon was there. No snow tonight, but it would be cold. Pete was wishing for a fire when he saw a glow up ahead. Chances were, the fire belonged to the two men he was following.
Pete stashed his pack, got his rifle ready, and crept closer.
Voices came to him before he saw the man. The first voice was high-pitched, kind of whiny. "Too bad that old bugger got off a shot at me. You know we raised a lot of racket shooting him down."
A gruff voice answered. "Yeah, but don't you worry, Sammy boy, there was nobody to hear, and he's dead now and we're not. How's your arm?"
"It hurts like the devil, but not so much I can't carry my gold. Imagine that, me, with my own bag of gold."
"It should have been more, but that bastard only had two bags of gold with him. I'm sure he has a rich claim somewhere near here and I aim to find it. Son of a bitch wouldn't tell us where it is, even when he was dying and had no use for it."
"Not only that, he swore we would never live to spend his gold. He cursed us Mitch, I swear he did."
Pete had crawled close enough to see them by the orange light of their little fire. The one called Mitch, a large, faded, grizzled man, laughed. "Do you really believe that?"
"Of course not, that's crazy talk. How could he?" But the scrawny youth glanced furtively to both sides of his prominent nose. Greasy, blondish hair poked out from under the entire perimeter of his hat. A makeshift bandage encircled his right upper arm, which he was careful not to move very much. "What about that gold watch? Why couldn't we get it out of his hand?"
"It was rigor mortis, that's all, nothing more. Dead men get stiff. Now go get some water for coffee while I try to round up some more wood." Mitch did up the top button of his coat. "We'll need it tonight." He got to his feet and crashed through the bush, passing less than ten feet from Pete, who was hunched down behind a three-foot boulder, trying to act like a rock. Sammy grabbed the coffeepot and slunk down to the creek.
The ticking started in his head. "What?" he whispered. The ticking got louder. "What do you want? Are you crazy. I can't go in there." The ticking grew more insistent. Crouching low, he scurried into the camp.
He was almost at the fire before he noticed the gun belts hanging over a log. Sammy had probably removed his because he couldn't draw with his good hand. Mitch had evidently been cleaning his gun.
Pete quickly unloaded the guns and replaced them. He heard the young man returning; there was no time to get out of camp. He pocketed the bullets and sat on a rock across the fire from the guns, with his own rifle ready across his lap.
"Howdy," Pete said, before Sammy knew he was there.
Water sloshed as Sammy tried to cross-draw a gun that wasn't there, with a hand full of coffeepot.
"Settle down, I'm not going to hurt you. I have a campsite a mile up the creek. I was looking for wood when I saw the light from your fire and came to check it out. Do you have any real coffee for that pot?"
The young man flashed his yellow teeth in an attempt at a friendly grin. "Sure do." While his hands set the coffeepot to boil his eyes searched the bush where Mitch had gone.
Pete heard the ticking of the watch get louder. He stood up, rifle in his hands, several seconds before he heard Mitch returning.
Mitch took in the situation in one long, hard look, then turned his beady brown eyes on Sammy, who started babbling. "He was sitting here by the fire when I got back. Says he saw it from his camp up the creek. I'm making coffee."
"Do that," Mitch said. He dumped his armful of wood beside the guns, casually picked up his gun belt and buckled it on. He faced Pete. "You're lying. I think you've been following us and now you're here to steal our gold. Well, I ain't going to let you have it." He drew his gun and pointed it at Pete, all the while staring intently at his face.
Pete met Mitch's eyes but, even though he knew the gun pointing at him was empty, it was hard to keep his face calm. His voice sounding more casual than he felt, he said, "You're right. I was following you, but only since I found that prospector you shot and killed and robbed."
"He shot at us first."
"I heard the shots. I saw the body. One of you shot him in the back and you both finished him off."
Mitch turned his free hand up in an exaggerate shrug, said, "You got us," and pulled the trigger of his gun. The dull click wiped the smirk off his face. Instant rage erased the surprise. He dropped the gun, grabbed up the small axe from the ground beside the woodpile, and charged.
By the time Pete unfroze and brought his rifle to bear Mitch had taken two steps and raised the axe over his head. While Mitch took another step and the axe started down Pete's finger pulled the trigger, blasting a .44 caliber slug shot into Mitch's stomach, stopping him in his tracks. Pete worked the lever and fired again, a bit higher. Mitch sprawled on his back, his dead eyes staring up into the night sky.
Pete jacked another cartridge into the chamber and turned just as the young man leaped at him, thrusting with a small knife held in his left hand. The bullet ripped past the kid's ear and the knife stabbed into Pete's chest. The momentum of the charge sent Pete over backwards, but he managed to twist so he landed mostly on top, his rifle across Sammy's throat. He pushed himself up onto his knees. Sammy stabbed at his arm but he blocked it with the rifle barrel, then smashed the scrawny kid in the face with the rifle butt.
He got to this feet and chambered another cartridge, then shot the kid in the chest as he started to rise with a murderous rage distorting his face. The kid fell back and Pete shot him in the head for good measure.
Pete's wound was superficial, a small stab in his right pectoral muscle; the k
nife had barely made it through the layers of clothing. He cleaned and bandaged the wound, then finished making coffee. He hauled the corpses away from the camp before he enjoyed a couple of cups of the genuine brew. Then he crawled into their tent, made himself as warm and comfortable as he could with their bedrolls and fell asleep.