Water for Gold

By Eva-Joy Schönhaar

The desert stretched as far as Ben could see, the horizon disappearing in a haze of heat waves. He touched a hand to his black mustache and attempted to ignore the boasts coming from the man walking beside his horse.

“My men are comin’ for me, Marshal,” said Jack Chase. He wore a smile the way he had worn the blood of the bank manager: with unconcern. “Once they get here, I wouldn’t be in your boots for nothin’.”

Ben pushed up his hat a little and did not reply.

The ten thousand dollars in gold that Chase and his men had stolen from the town bank was more than just money. It represented the hard-earned savings of good people. And now that Ben had found Chase there was a chance he could make things right.

A slim chance, but Ben would take it.

“Just look at that dust behind us,” Chase said, pivoting lazily to look back the way they had come. He smirked. “Yessir, ain’t no men loyaler’n mine.”

Ben did not turn around. There was nothing he could do about pursuit at that moment. He had sent the telegram, back in town. That would have to be enough. That, and what was hidden beneath his saddle blanket.

“Y’see,” Chase continued, “I’m the only one who knows where the gold is hid. So even if you get me to Fort Smith, they’ll find some way to break me out.”

It was time to take that chance.

Ben unhooked the canteen strap from the pommel of his saddle and drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned the canteen to its place before dismounting. Better for him to walk now and spare the horse.

“What about a drink for me?” Chase demanded, extending his bound hands. “You ain’t the only one thirsty around here.”

Ben raised the canteen.

“Only a swallow left, Chase. To be saved for emergencies.”

Chase stared at the canteen. “A swallow? But you’re supposed to look after your prisoner! That’s the law or somethin’, ain’t it?”

“I am looking after you, Chase. All the way to Fort Smith.”

The consternation on Chase’s face rearranged itself into confidence. “You wish, Marshal. My men are goin’ to free me an’ kill you before we’re halfway there.”

Not a breath of wind stirred the sand and scrub brush. Ben swallowed, his mouth sticky with thirst. It would be worse for Chase.

“Just one little drink, Marshal,” Chase pleaded.

Ben said nothing.

“You’re gonna let me die out here?” Chase rasped, staggering closer to Ben.

Ben’s hand went to his revolver.

Chase froze. “Just one swallow!”

“You’ll get a drink when we reach Fort Smith.”

Chase coughed. “I’ll be a dead man before then. We’ll never make it. Not walkin’.” His voice slipped into a whine. “C’mon, Marshal. I’ll give you anythin’ you want.”

Ben tensed.

“Anything…” Chase repeated. Then, “Marshal! How much is that water worth to you?” he demanded, half-running to keep up with Ben’s long, even stride. “Is it worth five thousand? Is it?”

At last, Ben looked at him. “The stolen bank money?”

Chase nodded vigorously. “I’ll give you half if you give me that water.”

Ben turned, studying the desert and the dust cloud following them.

If only he could know for sure…

“All right,” he said at last. “Show me.”

They led the horses into a ghost town, the buildings scoured gray by sandstorms. Chase staggered down the town’s main street. Ben followed, watching for any sign that Chase had led him into a trap. But all was calm.

Chase stopped at a faded building. He pried up a few of the porch boards, his movements awkward with his hands bound. He hauled out several bags, weighty with gold.

Some of the tension left Ben’s shoulders.

Now if he could only survive to see the gold returned to its rightful owners.

“S’ all there,” Chase said, slumping onto the boardwalk. “Now give me my water.”

Ben handed him the nearly empty canteen.

While Chase feverishly gulped the water, Ben lifted his saddle blanket and pulled out his other, full canteen. He watered his horse, then took a long drink himself.

Chase stared at him with open-mouthed disbelief.

“Why you—” he sputtered. “You had water all this time!” His bound fists tightened, then relaxed. “It don’t matter anyway.” He nodded to the desert beyond. “My men are almost here.”

“And I’m sure they will be understanding when they see you led me, a United States marshal, straight to the gold.”

Chase blanched. “You tricked me! I never would’ve brung you here!”

“I doubt they’ll stop to ask after your motives.”

The ground reverberated beneath Ben’s boots.

“You’ve got to protect me, Marshal! If they think I’ve double-crossed ‘em…” Chase tried to stand but fell into the dust.

Hooves pounded up the street. Foe? Or friend?

Ben took up his rifle and turned to face them.

Badges flashed in the sun as the riders flowed around Ben and Chase.

Relief nearly brought Ben to his knees.

“Got your message, Ben, and came runnin’.” Deputy Ira Jenkins pulled the telegram from his vest pocket with a flourish. “We caught up to Chase’s gang on the way, like you predicted. Sent some of the boys back to town with them. We’ll take the gold back with us, make sure everyone gets what’s theirs.”

“I’m more obliged than you know, Ira,” Ben said.

He reached down to help Chase stand.

Chase jerked away. “I’m still thirsty,” he muttered.

“Well, you’re in luck.” Ben’s mustache twitched. “There’s plenty of water at Fort Smith.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eva-Joy Schönhaar has been writing since she was thirteen. While westerns are her happy place, she enjoys experimenting with and writing in a variety of genres. Eva-Joy lives with her family in snowy Alberta, Canada. When not writing, she loves to read all the books, watch old movies, and drink copious amounts of coffee.

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