Authors: William W. Johnstone
Sidewinders (11 page)
Even as those thoughts filled his mind, a large part of Bo's brain was alert for trouble, and his eyes, keen despite his age, never stopped moving. His gaze roamed over the thickly wooded walls of the gulch, watching for the sun's split-second reflection on metal, or movement where everything should be still, or any other indication that things were not as they should be.
Early that morning, as they were getting ready to go, their breath had fogged thickly in front of their faces in the cold air. By now the sun had risen high enough that the temperature had warmed a little, especially here in the middle of the gulch next to the creek. Up ahead on the left, a tall, rocky outcropping loomed up and cast a thick shadow over a brushy area at the base of the slope. The sun didn't penetrate there.
Bo's eyes narrowed as he spotted what looked like a tiny puff of smoke drifting over that brush. It wasn't smoke at all, he realized. It was somebody's breath fogging up because the air under that big slab of rock was a little colder, just cold enough to cause that telltale sign.
And there was no reason for anybody to be hiding in there unless they were up to no good.
Softly, Bo called across to his old friend. “Scratch. Up ahead on the left, under that big rock.”
“I see it,” Scratch replied, equally softly. “Chloride, get ready to move.”
The old-timer stiffened on the seat. “What in blazesâ” he began.
Then the brush trembled a little, and Bo caught a glimpse of a rifle barrel poking between branches. There was no time for anything but action. He yanked his horse to the side, shouted, “Chloride, get down!” and snapped the Winchester to his shoulder. Shots roared out as he worked the rifle's lever as fast as he could and sent a steady stream of lead into that brush.
CHAPTER 11
Bo went one way and Scratch went the other so the outlaws hidden in the bushes would have a harder time killing both of them. At the same time, Chloride yanked the team to a stop, grabbed one of the loaded shotguns from the floorboard, and slid off the seat. He ducked under the wagon and crouched there as bullets began to thud into the thick planks of the vehicle's sideboards and whine off the iron-rimmed wheels.
Bo sent his horse at a run toward some trees. He felt the heat of a bullet as it passed close by his face. Powder smoke floated over the brush now instead of the fogging of some owlhoot's breath. That had been a small thing, just enough to give away the gang's hiding place before they could spring their ambush.
As the horse reached the trees, Bo kicked his feet free of the stirrups and went out of the saddle. He landed running and managed to stay upright without crashing into one of the tree trunks. A slug sent bark flying into the air as Bo ducked into cover.
He glanced around, looking for Scratch, and saw that the silver-haired Texan had splashed across the creek and gone to ground in a cluster of rocks that were big enough to offer some decent shelter. Scratch's rifle spoke from over there, blasting bullets toward the brush where the Devils were hidden.
Bo had no doubt that it was the Deadwood Devils in there. This holdup wasn't going the way the Devils were used to, though. Bo thrust his rifle around the tree trunk and opened fire, joining Scratch in peppering the gang's hiding place with lead. From under the wagon, the shotgun boomed and then Chloride's old cap-and-ball revolver began to roar as he got in on the action as well.
A grim smile touched Bo's lips. The outlaws were accustomed to their victims trying to flee. This time they were putting up a fight instead. The thicket waved back and forth as the Texans sent lead scything through the branches from two different angles. Even though the Devils outnumbered their enemies, judging by the shots coming from the brush, they had chosen their position for concealment, not to defend. By spotting them first and not running, the Texans had turned the tables neatly on the bushwhackers.
One of the outlaws lost his nerve and made a break for it. Bo spotted him as the man lunged out of the brush and tried to duck around the rocky shoulder. Letting instinct guide his aim, Bo snapped a shot at the fleeing man and was rewarded by a howl of pain and the sight of the outlaw staggering as he clutched at a bullet-shattered shoulder. The man made it around the rocks, but he was out of the fight.
A burst of renewed firing came from the brush and forced both of the Texans to duck. The outlaws used that to cover their retreat. Some of them kept shooting while the rest of the gang dashed for cover. Bo and Scratch had to keep their heads down and managed only a couple of shots to send the men hurrying on their way.
The gang's horses must have been hidden just around the bend in the trail. Bo heard hoofbeats pound as some of the men galloped down the gulch toward Deadwood. The ones left in the brush broke from cover and ran toward the bend, firing rifles and handguns as they went. Bo got a good enough look at them to see that they had their bandanas pulled up to mask their faces. A couple of the men staggered as the Texans' bullets found them, but they stayed on their feet and kept running, ducking out of sight around the bend in the trail. More hoofbeats sounded a moment later as the attackers reached their horses and lit a shuck away from there.
Chloride let out a whoop from under the wagon. “We done it!” he yelled. “We fought 'em off!”
“Stay where you are,” Bo called as he saw the old-timer start to crawl out from under the wagon. “We want to make sure they're all gone before we show ourselves.”
They waited until all the hoofbeats had faded away into the distance, then waited a while after that. Chloride grew impatient and muttered oaths, but the Texans stoically used the time to reload their rifles.
Finally, Bo emerged from the trees and whistled for his horse. As the animal trotted up, Chloride called, “Can I come out now, blast it?”
“Come ahead,” Bo told him. “Just keep your gun handy until Scratch and I have a chance to do a little scouting around.”
Scratch left the rocks on the other side of the creek, called his horse, and rode back across the fast-flowing stream. He said, “I think I winged a couple of those varmints, Bo.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Bo said with a nod. “We're whittling them down.”
“Not fast enough to suit me,” Chloride said as he stood beside the wagon gripping his old revolver.
The Texans rode up to the bend in the trail and took a look. Nobody shot at them. “Stay here to keep an eye on Chloride and the gold,” Scratch said. “I'll mosey a ways down the gulch.”
Bo nodded his agreement and waited there while Scratch scouted their route. The silver-haired Texan soon was out of sight. Bo waited tensely for his friend to return . . . or for shots to break out.
His hands tightened a little on the Winchester when he heard a horse coming. Scratch rode into view a moment later and waved his rifle above his head to let Bo know that everything was all right. Bo turned in the saddle and waved to Chloride.
“Come on! The trail is clear!”
Chloride got the wagon moving again. Bo waited for him to catch up, and then they both went on down the trail to join up with Scratch.
“See anything of those owlhoots?” Bo asked.
Scratch shook his head. “Nary hide nor hair. That's twice we've fought 'em off. I reckon they must've had things their own way around here for so long they don't know what to make of it when somebody fights back. Seems like they spook pretty easy.”
“They won't again,” Bo predicted. “They know what they're up against now. They'll be better prepared next time.”
On that cautionary note, Bo, Scratch, and Chloride proceeded on down the gulch toward Deadwood. The wagon couldn't move very fast. Noon came and went, and a short time after that, they stopped to rest the mule team and eat the food they had brought with them from the mine. The Golden Queen's cook had prepared them a lunch of thick slices of bread, bacon, and canned tomatoes.
The rest of the trip was surprisingly uneventful. Bo knew the Devils could have prepared another ambush, but evidently that morning's fight had shaken them enough to make them think twice about that. Around midafternoon, they spotted the smoke rising from Deadwood's chimneys, and a short time after that, the settlement itself came into view.
People on the boardwalks gawked as the wagon rolled down Main Street, flanked by the two Texans. The vehicle was obviously loaded with gold and bound for the bank. Someone must have run ahead to carry the word because when Chloride brought the wagon to a stop in front of the building, the bank manager, Jerome Davenport, had already stepped out onto the boardwalk to greet them.
Davenport hooked his thumbs in his vest and said, “I heard a rumor that you were working for the Golden Queen now, Coleman. Is that true? Do you really have a shipment of Miss Sutton's gold in that wagon?”
“What do you think?” Chloride replied as he wrapped the reins around the brake lever. “What do you reckon I did, loaded this here wagon with plain ol' rocks and brought them in?”
“It's gold,” Bo said. “We'll be depositing it, and we'll want a receipt.”
Davenport nodded curtly. “Of course. I must say, I'm surprised you were able to bring it into town without the Devils trying to hold you up.”
“Nobody said that's what happened,” Scratch drawled.
The banker frowned in thought as he tried to figure out what Scratch meant. Then Davenport's eyes widened in surprise as the realization came to him.
“You mean you
were
attacked by the Devils?” he demanded.
were
attacked by the Devils?” he demanded.
Bo dismounted. He looped his horse's reins around the hitch rail in front of the bank and said, “That's right. But as you can see for yourself, we're still alive and the gold is still in the wagon. Now, how about getting some of those clerks of yours to come out here and start unloading the shipment? The sooner that gold's safely locked up in the vault, the better.”
“Of course, of course,” Davenport muttered. “I just . . . You really mean to say that you fought them off?”
“See for yourself, dagnab it,” Chloride said. “You're a banker. You ought to recognize gold when you see it.”
A crowd had gathered around the wagon, and at the news that the Devils had tried to steal the gold, only to fail, several people hurried off to spread the word. As Bo glanced down the street, he saw several men calling out the news to their friends. Obviously, it was a big day in Deadwood. This was the first time the Devils had gone after something and not gotten it.
Davenport stepped back into the bank while Bo and Scratch stood by with their Winchesters tucked under their arms, intent on not letting the precious stuff out of their sight until it was locked in the vault. Chloride watched over it, too.
A slight commotion down the street drew Bo's attention. When he looked that way, he saw Martha Sutton hurrying toward the bank. She had her dress pulled up a little so she could move faster. Her blond curls bounced on her shoulders.
She was a little breathless when she came up to them and stopped. “You . . . you made it,” she said. “You really got here with the gold.”
Scratch tugged on the brim of his hat. “That's what we said we'd do, miss,” he told her with a grin.
“I heard people talking about how the Devils tried to steal it. Is that true?”
“It's true, but we convinced them not to,” Bo said with a smile of his own.
“You should've seen it,” Chloride put in. “It was a real battle royal!”
Bo shook his head. “I wouldn't go quite that far. They tried to bushwhack us, and we discouraged them.”
“There's no point in false modesty,” a new voice said. Bo looked around to see Lawrence Nicholson standing there, a pearl-gray bowler hat on his head and his hands stuck in his trouser pockets. The owner of the Argosy Mining Company went on. “You've done something that no one else has been capable of, gentlemen. You not only survived an attack by the Devils, but you also delivered the shipment of gold they wanted. A remarkable achievement, considering the events of the past few months. I'm beginning to think perhaps I was wrong not to hire you.”
“We're happy workin' for Miss Sutton,” Scratch said. “We intend to keep on doin' it.”
Nicholson nodded. “I understand. I applaud such loyalty. I would point out, though, that the Argosy can afford to pay you more than the Golden Queen.” He smiled at Martha. “No offense, my dear.”
Despite that, she looked a mite offended anyway, Bo thought. But she just said, “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't try to steal my employees away from me, Mr. Nicholson.”
He laughed. “Of course. Congratulations on getting your shipment through.” He nodded to Bo, Scratch, and Chloride. “And congratulations to you three on surviving your encounter with the Deadwood Devils.”
As Nicholson moved on down the street, Chloride muttered, “You notice he didn't say nothin' about bein' wrong to fire
me
.”
me
.”
“He was thinkin' it,” Scratch assured the old-timer.
Several of Davenport's clerks emerged from the bank to begin the task of unloading the gold. Bo followed the clerks inside and watched them place the crates full of gold bars into the vault while Scratch and Chloride stayed outside to keep an eye on the wagon. It didn't take long to get everything unloaded, including the bags of gold dust in the compartment under the seat. Davenport wrote out a receipt and gave it to Martha.
“There you are, Miss Sutton,” he said. “I assume you'll want some of the funds added to your drawing account?”
“That's right,” she said. “I'm going to stock up on supplies for my workers and send them back out to the mine with the wagon.”
While they were making those arrangements, Chloride eyed the saloons on the eastern end of the settlement, in the area sometimes known as the Badlands. The fire the year before had wiped out a number of those establishments, but they had been rebuilt. Chloride licked his lips and said, “I could sure use a drink to warm me up. The sun may be shinin', but it's still a pretty chilly day.”
“I was thinking more about getting something to eat,” Bo said with a nod toward the Red Top Café.
“That ain't a bad idea,” Scratch agreed. “I got somethin' on my mind I need to ask Miz Pendleton about.”
Bo looked over at his old friend. “You're not thinking about marriage again, are you? I know the idea crops up every time you meet a pretty widowâ”
“Especially a pretty widow who can cook,” Scratch said with a grin. “But naw, I reckon I know by now I ain't ever gonna settle down. I've got a question for the lady anyhow.”
“All right, but don't be surprised if she slaps your face.”
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