The Cave Devil by Western

The Cave Devil
by
� Western_Devil

Part 1

Ned Haske had never developed much of a taste for coffee, but he had come to accept the fact that �having a cup of java� was an important social ritual with Sid Richardson, so he always accepted one when offered. True, Ned�s cup was more than half filled
with sugar and condensed milk before the coffee was even added -- it was the only way to make it reasonably palatable -- but still he didn�t care for it all that much.

�Well, Ned�, Richardson said above the clanking of the spoons in the tin cups, �I
known you long enough to tell when something�s on your mind. What�s eatin� at you, young feller?�.

Ned stared at his coffee, then at the table, then at the wall; obviously uncomfortable
with what he had to say. He and John Daw had agreed, over a year ago, that the true story of the death of the Grave Robber must be kept a secret between them. Now he
was about to betray that agreement, and it bothered him. True, Sid Richardson was a trustworthy individual, and, in fact, had played a major role in the event himself. But once a secret has been released from captivity, it develops a marked tendency to break free again and again. Ned knew this. Finally, he took a deep breath and blurted out the whole story, explaining how the witch had already been dead of arrow wounds prior to John Daw�s arrival on the scene. Richardson listened carefully, his face an expressionless mask.

For some minutes after Ned had completed his �confession�, there was silence. Finally
Richardson spoke up. �So the fact that you killed that feller is botherin� your conscience? Well, Ned, it shouldn�t. After all, he needed killin�, and that�s what we was plannin� all along, ain�t it?�

�You misunderstand, Hosteen. That�s not what bothers me. I agree that the witch deserved to die, and I�m proud that I was the one to do it. There are only two things which bother me about it.�

�And what might they be?�

�First of all, I want people to KNOW that I destroyed the grave robber -- childish, I realize, but I want the credit due a warrior. But the most important thing....� He
paused here, and idly twirled the empty coffee cup in his hands. �The thing which bothers me most is hard to put into words, but I guess I want to do it AGAIN.. Life around Wolf Post no longer holds any interest for me -- I find myself craving danger. Every day I crave it more. I begin to worry that I will do something foolish in order to satisfy this desire.�

Richardson made a soft sound that was something like a sigh; whether this was an exclamation of relief or exasperation could not be determined. �Come here, Ned,� he said, rising from his chair. �I want to show you something.�

The two entered the back room of the trading post, past barrels and sacks and bolts of cloth, to a small wooden chest against the far wall. Richardson withdrew a key on a rawhide thong from inside his shirt and knelt to open the chest.

�Ain�t opened this box up for years�, Richardson explained. As though to add credence to his words, he blew a layer of dust off the top. The hinges creaked with displeasure as he raised the lid. �Two main reasons I think you ought to see this,� the old man continued.�First off --� here he switched to the Dine tongue and quoted a proverb translated roughly as �Share a secret with one who shares a secret with you.� �Also,�
he continued, once again in English, �I�m hopin� to get a point across to you.�

Richardson removed several folded papers from the box and set them aside, then withdrew the one he had apparently been looking for. It was brown and brittle with age. Very slowly and carefully, he began to unfold the paper along its ancient creases. Ned had no idea what was going on -- for a second, the idea occured to him that this may
be a treasure map, and his pulse quickened with the thought.

�Take a gander at this, Ned.� The aged document was now opened fully, and Ned was
a trifle disappointed. It was not a map at all; merely a poorly-drawn portrait of some White man, and a printed caption. Although Ned could read, he was somewhat out of practice and his mouth moved along silently as he sounded out the syllables. �Wan...ted...for...bank...rob...be...ry...and...mur...der.� The expression on his face conveyed his confusion.

�I do not understand, Hosteen. What has this to do with me?�

�Well, Ned,� the trader explained, �that there feller� -- he wagged a finger at the
picture --�was in a similar fix as you. Wanted danger and excitement. Figgered to
find hisself both by robbin� banks.�

�And?�

�And so he did. Got his danger and excitement, all rightee, what with dodgin� bullets and outrunnin� posses and the like. But then....� His voice trailed off.

�But then what? What happened?�

�Well, on his third and last bank hold-up, there was trouble. Some of the local citizens had been expectin� him, it seems, and they was armed and layin� in wait. The outlaw gang -- there was five of �em, all just kids, really -- got theyselves into a runnin� gun battle. Four of the five was cut down in the street. The fifth took a pistol ball in the shoulder but managed to get away -- empty-handed, though.� The old man�s face, usually so devoid of all emotion, took on a strange expression -- sort of like anger,
sort of like sadness, perhaps with a touch of disgust. �The worst part, though, was that there was some innocent bystanders caught in the midst of it all. A little girl was killed by a stray bullet. Nobody knows for sure who actually fired the shot that hit her --
mebbe one of the outlaws, maybe one of the citizens. But that don�t really matter....
She was still just as dead, no matter who pulled that particular trigger what done it.� Richardson seemed drained now as he carefully refolded the paper. �That was over
forty years ago. The wounded outlaw vanished from the state o' Missouri and was
never heard from again. But you can bet he had to carry the guilt of that dead girl on
his soul for the rest of his natural-born life.�

There was a long pause, the silence of the room broken only by the sounds of the
papers being replaced, and the box being closed and locked.

�You probably figgered out who that wounded outlaw was, eh?�

�Yes, Hosteen, I think so.�

�Well, take that story to heart, Ned. Cravin� danger ain�t a bad thing on its own -- but don�t let that danger spill over onto innocent folks who don�t need it. Keep your soul clean, Ned. Once you get it dirty, it stays dirty for a long, long time.�

Since his talk with Richardson, Ned was more disturbed than ever about the feelings
he harbored within himself. Prior to calling on the trader, he had been contemplating crossing over to the nearby Paiute lands and �looking for trouble� -- perhaps steal a
few horses (a traditional intertribal �sport� prior to the coming of White rule in the area) or pick a fight with one of the young bucks. Now he could no longer find it possible to do that, as he was worried that an innocent person may be hurt as a result. He well recalled the way his own little sister�s death had driven a shaft of pain into his heart, and he would not wish to inflict such a thing on anyone else (not even a Paiute).

What, then, to do? If he attempted to continue on with his daily stagnant routine of tending sheep, he felt that something would blow up inside of him from the unreleased pressure. What Ned Haske needed more than anything else, he realized, was an enemy with which to do battle. He needed to pit himself against something or someone so evil that there could be not the slightest remorse at destroying it. Unfortunately, such enemies were not exactly lurking behind every creosote bush in Arizona.

Each night, Ned�s dreams would be filled with adventure as he rode forth to vanquish some terrible foe. When he awoke, he would be sweating and flushed with excitement. His parents could not help but notice this condition, but they seemed to interpret it otherwise; his father suggested several young women of the community that Ned may want to pay a social call upon. The young man was not averse to this sort of thing, of course, but that type of lust was much more easily quenched than the type which currently enflamed him.

One afternoon, Ned was boredly tossing pebbles at grasshoppers while he tended the family sheep, and suddenly realized a possible solution to his woes. He would join the Navajo Police Force! Why this had not occured to him earlier, he did not understand;
it was the simplest of answers. As he well recalled from his many conversations with John Daw, tribal police officers led lives of danger and excitement -- yet were clearly fighting on the side of right, in the eyes of both the Dene people and the U.S. Government. That evening, Ned packed his saddlebags and once again set out on the trail to Window Rock.

To want something very badly -- very VERY badly -- and not know how to get it, that can be a depressing feeling. To think you have figured out how to obtain that thing you want, only to have your hopes shattered by something beyond your control? That goes beyond depressing -- that is more like devastating. Ned Haske felt devastated.

He had believed it would be a simple thing to ride over to Window Rock and join the tribal police -- in reality, that had not been so. After being all but completely brushed aside by the "civilized Indians" who manned the desk jobs at the Bureau, Ned had sought out his friend John Daw, only to hear more bad news.

"I am sad to tell you, Little Brother," Daw had explained, "that it is not an easy thing
to become a policeman. There are many who wish to join -- far more every year than can possibly be accepted. Because of this, the Government has made a long list of reasons not to accept people."

"What sort of reasons, Elder Brother? Are they not things I can overcome?"

"Quite possibly -- but it will take time. For one example, all policemen must be at
least twenty-five years of age. You are now what, eighteen?"

"Nineteen, Elder Brother. So I must wait six more years?" The disappointment
showed in Ned's voice.

"At least that. Most who are accepted are about thirty. And married."

"What has marriage to do with it?"

"Probably nothing, really. But the Government believes that a married Indian is more likely to be responsible and trustworthy than an unmarried one -- how that idea started, I cannot say. And there is also the matter of schooling. How many years of school does Little Brother have?"

"Six years", Ned replied proudly. This was at least five years more formal education than most of the people of Wolf Post had obtained. "And I can read, also."

"That is a point in your favor, then. All policemen must be able to read. Unfortunately, Little Brother, you are still too young. There is no way around that obstacle other than the passage of time."

The ride to Window Rock had been a fast and pleasant one; Ned's hopeful feelings
had seemed to flow from his own body into that of his horse, and put wings on the pony's hooves. The ride back was just the opposite -- Ned's gloom weighed down both himself and his horse like a physical burden. By the time the sun began to disappear behind the canyon walls, Ned was less than halfway back to Wolf Post. He stopped where he was and made a lackluster camp, not even bothering to eat. He wanted only
to sleep, to dream; in his dreams he could cast off the numbing mediocrity in which his life seemed doomed to be led. But just as sleep was about to mercifully overtake him, Ned heard a rifle shot. He sat bolt upright, unsure whether the sound had been real or imagined. Then he heard another shot -- and yet another.

Part 2

Ned's immediate reaction upon hearing the gunshots was to take cover. He had, after all, been wounded by a bullet once before; it wasn't an experience he cared to repeat too often. After the cobwebs of sleepiness had cleared from his mind, he realized that the shots had been much too distant to have been directed at him -- especially on a dark and moonless night. However, he still walked over and removed the battered 30/30 from its boot on his saddle, intending to keep it by him for the rest of the night -- just because the shots had been distant that time didn't mean they couldn't move a lot closer very soon.

It wasn't a particularly accurate weapon (nor was Ned a particularly accomplished marksman -- the price of cartridges prevented him from practicing as often as he would have liked), but Ned cherished it. This was the rifle with which he had been shot off of his horse by Mando Begaye, the grave robber of Wolf Post. Officer John Daw had confiscated it along with the rest of the evidence in the case, then had purchased it back from the Tribal Police for a nominal sum and given it to Ned. It was much more than just an ordinary firearm to Ned Haaske -- it was a talisman of sorts; it symbolized both the downfall of the man Ned had hated above all others, and the friendship of the man he admired above all others. It was priceless.

With no further indications of excitement to hold his attention, Ned eventually drifted back to sleep. The rest of the night passed dreamlessly -- quite unusual for him lately -- and he awoke refreshed. After a yawn, a stretch, and a friendly pat on the nose of his faithful pony, the boy walked a few feet away from his camp area to release his morning water -- and then he saw the tracks.

It would probably have been quite a comical sight to an onlooker, had there been one nearby. There stood Ned, his unsheathed organ forgotten in his hand, as he stared at the ground with an expression of shock on his face. The tracks were quite fresh, and quite clear -- someone in moccasins had walked up to his campsite during the night. In near panic, he quickly turned and surveyed his few possessions -- nothing seemed to be missing. Ned returned his attention to the footprints. Although not exactly an expert
tracker, he could read what had happened plainly enough. The mysterious visitor had quietly walked up to within a few feet of where Ned had lay asleep, stood there for a minute or two, then departed. Who was it, and why hadn't Ned heard him approach (he had been a notoriously light sleeper ever since the grave robber incident)? And the horse -- the horse always nickered at strangers. Why hadn't he made any sound this time?

Ned backtracked the prints of the moccasined feet to a few yards from his campsite, and found where the unknown visitor had dismounted from his horse. No, those hoofprints weren't of a horse -- they were the long, narrow tracks of an unshod mule. A quite good-sized mule, judging from the span of the prints. Who in the area rode a large saddle mule? No one came to mind right away. Angrily, Ned turned to his pony.

"A man and a mule came by in the night, and you made no sound? What is wrong with you? He could easily have killed both of us in our sleep!"

The little horse looked Ned in the face unabashedly, then seemed to drop his gaze a bit lower. Ned blushed a bit beneath his tan.... then rebuttoned his trousers.

to be cont..