Prologue
Colorado, 1900
Young Carter stumbled down the ravine, nearly out of breath. He nearly lost his footing without the use of his hands which were clutched around the bundle in his arms. When he’d reached the bottom, he ran along it in a southwesterly direction until he came to his secret place. He hid there to catch his breath and to wait for whomever it was that was pursuing him to leave the area. When it was safe he could take his treasure home and hide it for the time being. It was his task, young as he was, to keep it safe as long as he was able. From what he did not know, but this task was one he would not take lightly. It was a task he had to fulfill, a task from a friend.
The sound of hoof beats echoed from somewhere outside his hideaway, at least thirty yards away from the echo of the sounds outside. He tensed as a voice spoke closer than he expected.
“Did you see whereabouts he went?”
“Nah,” came another, “young bucks can disappear in these woods. They play in here most every day.”
The first voice cursed savagely. “We’ve got to find it! It belongs to me!”
“Easy,” replied the second in an effort to console the first. “We’ll ask around. Somebody’s bound to have heard something.”
The first voice grunted a muted response and the sound of hoof beats rose than fell in volume as they disappeared into the night. Carter crawled slowly out from the mouth of the hidden cave, glanced furtively around him, then took off up the ravine in the direction of the town. Five minutes later he veered up the left wall until the rear of a ranch yard hove into view. Yet even with his home in sight he didn’t slow his pace, even though his lungs burned and his sides ached badly. Not until he was in his room and had secreted his trust within his secret niche under the floorboards beneath his bed, did he finally fall flat on his bed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
A soft knock at the door, brought his senses up to the alert once more. He held a baseball bat out of sight at his hip as he opened the door to his bedroom. He let it slide quietly to the ground as he recognized the warm features of his mother.
“Mother,” he breathed and backed up to the bed. “It’s you.”
She frowned as he drew in a deep breath.
“Carter is something the matter?” she inquired.
He turned his eyes away in no certain direction and replied as calmly as he could, “Nothing, I-It’s nothing, mother.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And did this nothing cause you to be short of breath? Or, maybe you didn’t want to be late getting home? Where have you been by the way?”
He gulped and looked at the floor. “I was at Old Man Darrington’s place.”
His mother knitted her brows in simultaneous indignation and confusion. “And what pray tell, did you do there?”
He sighed, “Ah Ma, you know I like his stories. He’s the best in these parts.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Carter…you know how we feel about that.”
He stood up and spoke before she could. He already knew the words that would come from her mouth. “He’s not an old crackpot, mother. He’s not crazy either.”
She looked at him, her eyes betraying the doubt she felt, fumbling for a response. Nothing came and she could only continue to stare into her son’s eyes, seeing not only the truth, but the conviction in his eyes.
“He’s my friend, mother,” he said softly. She knew he was set in his belief and she would abide by it. Sighing she spoke before exiting the room. “You make sure and tell us where you are from now on. We love you, you know.”
He bit his lip. “I love you too, mother. I just don’t like people talking about Mr. Darrington that way.”
She smiled and strode across the room to hug her son. “I know dear.”
She kissed him on the forehead. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you, Carter. You have a good heart son.”
She walked to the door and laid a hand on the light switch. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mother.” He whispered. She turned the light out and closed the door. Carter fumbled around in his dresser drawer for a night shirt and got dressed for bed, all the while his mind on Old Man Darrington. He climbed into bed and lay awake. Sleep would not come easily tonight, not for him, not knowing what he knew.
********
A mile and a half away, Samuel Darrington lay on the floor of his house, fading fast. The men had ransacked his house earlier, had not found what they wanted, had left him for dead. He smiled wryly as his life ebbed away, satisfied that his work was done. He had passed the baton; he had put it beyond their reach, at least for now. He only hoped that good fortune and the hand of God would watch over the couriers of the treasure, that the people entrusted with its safety would have the aid they needed to guard it from the prying eyes and slippery hands of those who would use it to do ill.
He drew the last vestiges of air into his lungs and breathed, with his last breath, “And so it begins.”
