Devil's Canyon Page 17

  “Why not?” said Dog Face. “You was whinin’ because they rode off, takin’ their Winchesters. Well, five of ’em are back. What do you expect me to do, take a switch to ’em?”

  Sangre thought that hilariously funny, and erupted into a fit of laughter. The Utes all looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.

  “You damn fool,” Hueso said in disgust, “the only reason they ain’t done scalped you is ’cause you look like it’s already been done.”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Sangre. “You just got a mad on ’cause Slade’s rode out to look around. Dog Face, why don’t you take a switch to him?”

  “Both of you shut the hell up,” Dog Face snarled.

  Slade rode east, avoiding the low places where the mud was deepest. As yet there was no wind, and he looked for a tendril of smoke that might guide him to whatever sanctuary the teamsters had taken against the storm. He expected to find them in camp, for there was little chance of moving the heavy wagons through mud. Pausing on a ridge, he drew the spyglass from his saddlebag and searched the country ahead of him. He didn’t doubt his quarry had holed up in a canyon if they had been fortunate enough to have found one, and he really didn’t expect to see anything helpful through the glass. But he was at a high enough elevation that there was mostly brush for the next several miles, and suddenly he was seeing grazing horses and mules through the glass. There were men with them, and he was facing the sun.

  “Damn,” he said, hastily lowering the glass.

  But one of the men who had taken the animals to graze was Tarno Spangler, and the sharp eyes of the half-Comanche had seen the sun reflecting off the spyglass. He watched for it again, but saw it no more. Still it was significant enough that he told Faro of it.

  “That renegade outfit,” Faro said, “and we’ll give as good as we get. When we take the trail again, I’ll find out where they are.”

  “Short of following us,” said Collins, “they have no way of knowing our destination.”

  “Maybe they just intend to follow us,” Faro said, “but we can’t be sure of that. We can’t be sure they don’t aim to attack, capture some of us, and apply some Ute torture.”

  “It’s the kind of thing the Comanches would do,” said Tarno, “and it’s always worked surprisingly well.”

  “You ain’t seen fit to come right out and tell us,” Odessa said, “but from what I’ve heard, it appears you aim to risk all our scalps for a gold claim somewhere back in these mountains.”

  “God forbid that you and Mamie should feel slighted,” said Faro. “It’s true. There is a gold claim, but I don’t recall you bein’ hog-tied and dragged into this. You chose to come with us because we’re using your teams and wagon, and you know who roped us into that. Anytime you get to feelin’ your scalps are worth more than the teams and wagon, we won’t object if you just saddle up and ride on.”

  Mamie laughed. “You’re a caution, Duval. Whatever gave you the idea we wasn’t goin’ to stick with you to the bitter end?”

  “You been honest with us, Duval,” Odessa said, “so I reckon we can be honest with you. Mamie and me has been wonderin’ if, somewhere beneath that iron hide of yours, they ain’t some flesh and blood. Before we split the blanket with this outfit, one or both of us aim to get you under a wagon and find out.”

  None of their previous antics had surprised Faro Duval, but this time they had gone too far. Their brazen challenge got to him, and his face flamed with embarrassment. While the rest of the outfit kept straight faces, Hal Durham howled with laughter. But it lasted only until Faro got to him. But the gambler ducked, and Faro’s fist only clipped him on the side of his head, sending him sprawling.

  “You’re a big man, Duval, pushin’ your way around,” Durham snarled, “but I won’t always be without a gun.”

  “When that day comes,” said Faro, “I’ll be careful not to turn my back. Actually, I aim to do my best to avoid killing you, because you and this pair of foolish, desperate females deserve one another.”

  “Damn you, Duval,” Odessa shouted, “you watch who you’re callin’ foolish and desperate.”

  “Don’t push me,” said Faro, “or I’ll use a different set of words. I’m through trying to treat the pair of you as ladies, when you’ve been behaving like pigs. From now on, I’ll shove your heads in the slop.”

  None of his companions had ever seen Faro Duval so angry. When he stalked away, nobody followed. When suppertime drew near, the McCutcheons seemed to have forgotten their offer to do the cooking. Levi Collins approached Felix Blackburn.

  “You’re the best cook among us, Felix. Can we depend on you?”

  “Yes,” Blackburn said. “I’ll do it.”

  Nothing was said to the McCutcheons. Blackburn got a fire going, and wasted no time impressing them all with his ability. He turned out Dutch-oven biscuits that had the men all gathered near the supper fire, waiting. The McCutcheons remained aloof, their noses in the air.

  “I hope they stay miffed from now on,” said Shanghai. “They wasn’t bad, but Felix is great.”

  “He is,” Josh Snyder said, “but we never got much benefit of it, when there was just the four of us. It took all of us, with Winchesters, just to keep the Utes at a distance.”

  “Well, it’s gonna be a mite different, this time,” said Tarno. “I don’t fight Indians worth a damn on jerked beef and branch water.”

  Durham and the McCutcheons avoided the supper fire as long as they could, and when they finally approached, they were subdued. After filling their tin plates and tin cups, they retreated in silence.

  “They all got a burr under their tails,” Dallas said.

  “I hope it stays there,” said Tarno. “I’ve never seen Faro so killin’ mad.”

  Faro Duval had pretty well kept to himself after his confrontation with Durham and the McCutcheons, and nobody bothered him.

  “Leave him be,” Shanghai said. “It ain’t often he builds up such a head of steam, and I reckon it bothers him because they got to him.”

  When the sun eventually dried up enough of the mud, everybody was ready for the trail. For two days, Faro had said little, and nobody said or did anything to try his short-fused patience. Faro rode out, scouting ahead, and by riding wide, toward the north, he soon found the tracks of Slade’s horse. While the mud had dried, the trail was clear, and he followed it. Since it was still early, there was no wind, but there was a distinct gray smudge of smoke against the blue of the sky.

  “Maybe ten miles, horse,” Faro said. “Let’s try and get close enough to see how many men are in this camp.”

  Faro rode far enough north of the telltale smoke until he found decent tree cover. He then rode west until he was within a mile or two of the smoke. Leaving his horse and taking his Winchester, he proceeded on foot. There was scant cover as he descended to the lower elevation, and soon he was on hands and knees, creeping from one clump of brush to the next. Finally he could progress no farther without being seen, and had to content himself with his position. He could see the smoldering fire and four white men hunkered around it, but where were the Utes? A whisper of sound behind him was all the warning he had. The Ute sprang like a cougar, a deadly knife in his upraised fist, and Faro had no choice but to shoot. The roar of the Winchester sounded like a cannon in the stillness of the early morning. Knowing where there was one Indian there were likely to be others, Faro had little choice. He ran for his horse, but they were there ahead of him. Six of them with Winchesters at the ready. Faro allowed his Winchester to slip to the ground and lifted his hands. With the muzzle of his rifle, one of the Indians pointed to Faro’s gun belt, and there was nothing he could do except unbuckle it. One of the Indians seized the gun belt and with another leading his horse, they marched Faro toward the renegade camp. The Ute Faro had shot was only wounded in the shoulder, and he had his recovered knife in his other hand. He looked at Faro hungrily, saying some venomous words in his own tongue, but one of his companions restrained him. As the group a
pproached the fire, the four whites got to their feet. One of the Utes spoke rapidly, pointing first to Faro and then to the Indian who had been wounded. Dog Face responded just as quickly, and the seven Utes moved reluctantly away. The renegade fixed his one good eye on Faro and spoke.

  “You ain’t made no friends, pilgrim. Beaver Tail wants your scalp, and likely some other parts of your carcass.”

  “I’m not here to make friends with you or your pet Indians,” Faro said. “I’m scouting ahead for a party I’m sure you know about, and I have as much right here as you do.”

  Dog Face laughed. “Well, by God, ain’t you got sand. It ain’t a bad idea, makin’ you some amigos amongst the Utes, if you aim to ride these trails. Next time you come sneakin’ around my camp, I’ll let these heathen cut your gizzard out, along with any other parts they fancy. Slade, return his weapons.”

  Unbelieving, Faro buckled his gun belt around his middle and took his Winchester, but his eyes were on the assembled Utes.

  “Mount up and ride,” Dog Face ordered.

  Faro mounted and rode north, chills creeping up his spine. At any moment he expected to hear the roar of a Winchester and feel the slug slam into his back, but he was soon out of range. Finally he relaxed, wiping his sweating face on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “That was a damn fool move,” Hueso said, as Faro rode away.

  “Yeah,” said Sangre. “You should of let the Utes draw an’ quarter the bastard.”

  “The dumbest Ute in the bunch has got more brains than the two of you combined,” Dog Face replied. “We ain’t killin’ nobody until I say so. That bunch is suspicious, but they got nothin’ agin us, and until they lead us to that gold claim, they’re worth more to us alive than dead.”

  “I think so, too,” said Slade, his eyes on Sangre and Hueso.

  “You would,” Hueso said.

  Dog Face laughed, and his two disgruntled companions didn’t like the way things were shaping up. The Utes had taken care of the wounded Beaver Tail, and they now eyed the four white men without friendliness.

  * * *

  As Faro rode back to meet the wagons, he was thoroughly angry with himself. There had been no excuse for his having gotten so close to the renegade camp without considering the whereabouts of the Utes he knew were there. He was alive, thanks only to a whim of the renegade leader, and the only thing he had learned was that Slade was obviously one of the renegades. Certainly not worth the risk of his life, he thought in disgust, and he was tempted not to mention the incident to the rest of his outfit. But in the stillness, they likely had heard the shot. In the lead wagon, Collins saw him coming and called a halt to rest the horses. They all gathered to hear his report, and it took but a moment for him to understand why.

  “We heard a shot,” Dallas Weaver said, “and we was all set to grab our guns and come a-runnin’. But there wasn’t any more shots, and we reckoned you either had things under control, or it was too late. Looks like you come out all right.”

  “Yes,” said Faro, “but in a humiliating kind of way.”

  He held nothing back, telling them of being forced to shoot the Indian, of his capture, and of his release by the renegades.

  “I didn’t learn a damn thing,” he admitted, “except that Slade is part of the renegade outfit.”

  “To the contrary,” said Collins, “I’d say you learned a lot. Now we know they want us alive until we lead them to the claim.”

  “Yeah,” Kritzer said, “and we know there’s nothin’ Slade won’t do. Elsewise, he sure as hell wouldn’t of throwed in with that scruffy bunch.”

  “After today,” said Tarno, “I’d say we better not get too close. Indians ain’t the forgivin’ kind, and that bunch of Utes will be watchin’ for you. Get within Winchester range and they’ll kill you.”

  “I agree,” Collins said. “Let’s not take needless risks when there’s little to be gained. I think it’ll take every man of us with a gun in his hands before we reach the end of this trail.”

  “You’re right,” said Faro. “I walked into that like a real short horn, and only with a pile of luck and more than my share of the grace of God am I alive.”

  Durham laughed. “Duval gets his tail feathers clipped by a few Indians and he’s done got religion. There’ll be prayer meetin’ on Sunday morning, with dinner on the ground.”

  “Shut up, Durham,” Shanghai growled.

  Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon wanted to laugh, but thought better of it. The rest of the men seemed a little uncomfortable, but Faro ignored the grinning gambler. The wagons again took the trail west. The sun was barely noon-high when Durham kicked his horse into a gallop past the wagons.

  “There’s Indians on the back trail,” he shouted. “Since you took my guns, I hope you won’t mind if I don’t join in the fight.”

  In an instant, the men were off the wagon boxes, Winchesters in their hands. Collins leaped from the saddle and came on the run. The Utes had attacked the last two wagons, and as they swept past, Odessa McCutcheon and Felix Blackburn shot two of them off their horses. But the Indians were well within range and their arrows began taking a toll. One of the deadly barbs ripped through Dallas Weaver’s left shoulder and another tore into Josh Snyder’s right thigh. Mamie McCutcheon fell with a cry, wounded in her right side, just above her gun belt. But it had been a costly charge, and the Utes rode away, leaving nine dead behind.

  “Isaac, take over the reins for Dallas,” Faro said. “Josh, can you stay on the horse, or do you want a place in one of the wagons?”

  “I’ll stay with the horse,” said Snyder.

  “Felix,” Faro said, “you can join me in the first wagon, while Collins takes his horse. Some of you help Mamie up on the box with Odessa. We’ll stop at the nearest water and tend the wounds.”

  Having gotten well ahead of the wagons, Durham hadn’t received a scratch. He now rode back, just as Faro Duval stepped down from the first wagon.

  “Here,” said Faro, handing the gambler his Colt and Winchester. “Next time you pull iron on anybody in this outfit, you’d better shoot me first, because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

  Durham accepted the weapons without comment. The wagons rumbled on, taking more than two hours to reach water. While the teams were being unharnessed, Felix Blackburn got a fire going and put on a pot of water to boil. Now familiar with the procedure, Levi Collins took three quarts of whiskey from one of the wagons. The first he gave to Dallas Weaver, the second to Josh Snyder, and the third to Mamie McCutcheon.

  “Mr. Collins,” Mamie said, “who’s goin’ to take this arrow out of me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Collins. “Why?”

  “I want Duval to do it,” Mamie said.

  “I’ll tell him,” said Collins. “Drink the whiskey.”

  “I’ll want some help,” Faro said, when Collins informed him of Mamie’s request. “I’ll not lay a hand on either of these females without a witness.”

  “I can’t say I blame you,” said Collins. “I’ve never seen such conduct. They’ve gone out of their way to humiliate you. I’ll ride shotgun for you while you remove Mamie’s arrow, if you like.”

  “I’d be obliged,” Faro said.

  Faro spent three nerve-racking hours removing the arrows. Finished, his shirt was soaked with sweat and he was more than a little sick to his stomach.

  “You’d better stretch out in the shade for a while,” said Felix Blackburn. “There’s hot coffee when you’re ready.”

  “I’m obliged,” Faro said.

  “We’ll remain here for the night,” said Levi Collins. “I think we’ve all had enough for this day.”

  Faro slept the sleep of the exhausted, and when he awoke the sun was down and Felix had supper ready.

  “How are the wounded?” Faro asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” said Collins. “They’re sleeping off the whiskey. Durham and Odessa, too.”

  “Durham and Odessa?”

  “Yes,” Collins
said. “Odessa offered to stay with Mamie, and I left her a full quart of whiskey. Durham joined her and they killed the bottle.”

  “When Mamie needs more whiskey,” said Faro, “see that she gets it. But not a drop more.”

  “I’d already made that decision,” Collins said. “I was a damn fool.”

  Faro laughed. “It was your turn.”

  With Dallas Weaver and Josh Snyder wounded, each watch was a man shy.

  “I’ll look in on the wounded during the first watch,” Collins said, “if you’ll check on them during the second.”

  “Bueno,” said Faro. “I think we might as well plan on laying over an extra day.”

  “Perhaps two,” Collins said, “and then only with the wounded riding the wagons. But we can’t spare too many days. We don’t know how long the good weather’s going to hold. There could be more snow anytime, and it could be with us a lot longer.”

  Collins’s prediction proved accurate, and after a two-day delay, when they again took the trail, those all-too-familiar gray clouds hovered on the horizon.

  “It’s time to look for shelter,” said Faro. “I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  “Don’t shoot any more Indians, Duval,” Durham said. “They seem a little touchy.”

  Faro set his jaw, kept his silence, and rode out.

  “By God,” said Tarno Spangler, “Faro’s got more patience than I have. I’d have done shot that varmint dead.”

  “I never trusted or liked Durham from the time Slade tied in with him,” said Kritzer, riding with Tarno on the wagon box. “Somebody’s gonna kill that gambler, just on general principles, and I hope I’m around to see it.”

  Faro sought a canyon with water, and if possible, some graze, but found nothing that seemed suitable. He finally settled for a spring with a run-off in a brush- and tree-lined hollow. Even then the wagons had to travel almost fifteen miles before the storm struck. He met the wagons, and Collins reined them all up to rest the mules.

  “It’s a good fifteen miles,” Faro said, “and no canyon. Just a spring in a hollow, with some tree and brush cover. We’ll have to depend on our extra canvas and the wagons to protect us from wind and snow. We don’t have any time to spare.”