Sidewinders

by William W. Johnstone

  “Nope. But that don’t mean anything. The Devils could’ve dismounted a ways along the ridge and started sneakin’ up on foot.”

  Bo knew Scratch was right. Cold-blooded killers could be slipping into position to open fire on the camp right now. As far as anybody knew, the Deadwood Devils numbered around a dozen men, maybe a few more. That wasn’t enough to take on a troop of thirty or more well-armed cavalrymen, even if the soldiers were under the command of a greenhorn like Vance Holbrook.

  But if the outlaws could take the camp by surprise and kill some of the troopers in the first volley, that would go a long way toward evening up the odds. Bo and Scratch couldn’t let that happen.

  “Let’s make some noise,” Bo said as he lifted his rifle. He had levered a round into the Winchester’s chamber before he ever turned in for the night.

  “What if the Devils ain’t around?” Scratch whispered.

  “Then we’ll apologize later for disturbing Lieutenant Holbrook’s sleep.” Bo had the rifle at his shoulder now. He pointed the barrel at the sky and cranked off three shots as fast as he could work the lever. Beside him, Scratch did the same thing. The thunderous racket of the shots rolled across the top of the ridge toward the camp.

  Then the Texans hit the dirt, just in case some of the startled troopers jumped up and started blazing away in the direction of the shots without knowing what they were shooting at.

  Somewhere in the darkness a man’s harsh voice yelled, “Hit ’em!” and tongues of orange muzzle flame licked out from a different clump of trees near the camp. Bo knew that was where the bushwhackers were hidden. He propped himself up on his elbows, lined his sights on those trees, and started firing. Again, Scratch followed suit.

  The pickets weren’t sure exactly where to shoot, but they knew they were under attack. They opened fire, the shots from their Springfields snapping out. Since all the soldiers could do was aim at muzzle flashes, some of their shots were directed toward the trees where the ambushers were hidden, while others whipped through the branches and thudded into the trunks in the grove where Bo and Scratch lay. The Texans had known when they opened fire that they ran a risk of being shot by their own allies, but there wasn’t anything they could do about that except stay low.

  The troopers who had been sleeping scrambled out of their blankets, lunged from their tents carrying their rifles, and took cover behind the rocks scattered around the camp. Even over the roar of guns, Bo heard Sgt. Olaf Gustaffson bellowing orders. This wasn’t Gustaffson’s first fight. He would know what to do.

  Bo wasn’t surprised when the firing from the other clump of trees abruptly stopped. He spotted several dark shapes racing through the shadows, and so did Scratch. The silver-haired Texan exclaimed, “They’re lightin’ a shuck!” Scratch tracked one of the running figures with his Winchester and squeezed off another shot.

  The fleeing outlaw tumbled off his feet. Bo threw lead after the others but couldn’t tell if he hit any of them. Over at the camp, Gustaffson yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  “Countermand that order!” Lieutenant Holbrook shouted, his voice a little higher than normal from excitement and probably fear. “Continue firing! Over there in those trees!”

  “Better duck, partner,” Bo warned.

  Both Texans hunkered as low to the ground as possible while a storm of lead tore through the trees above them. During a brief pause in the firing, they rolled away from each other and crawled behind a couple of pines, putting thick trunks between themselves and the camp.

  After a few moments, the shooting trailed off again. Bo heard Gustaffson saying, “Lieutenant, I think that’s where Creel and Morton were!”

  “My God!” Holbrook yelped. “Why didn’t someone say so?”

  Because you didn’t give them a chance to, Bo thought. But now that the guns were silent, he took advantage of the chance to cup his hands around his mouth and call out, “Hold your fire! It’s us!”

  “You reckon the Devils left behind any sharpshooters?” Scratch asked as the Texans got to their feet.

  “I hope not,” Bo said.

  He hoped their horses had been picketed far enough into the trees that the animals had remained safe during all the shooting, too. He hadn’t heard either of the horses scream, so maybe they hadn’t been hit.

  Bo and Scratch reloaded, then held the rifles ready as they trotted toward the camp. Bo noticed that the fires had been doused completely, plunging the whole area into darkness. Probably Gustaffson’s idea, he told himself.

  “Hold it!” a voice said as they approached. Bo recognized it.

  “It’s just us, Sergeant,” he said.

  Gustaffson stood up from behind the rock where he had been kneeling. “Come ahead,” he told them. “Either of you fellas hurt?”

  “No,” Bo said, and Scratch added, “Nope.” Bo heard a man groan somewhere nearby and went on. “Sounds like somebody else is, though.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got casualties,” Gustaffson said, his voice grim now. “Including the lieutenant.”

  That surprised Bo. “I heard him just a few minutes ago.”

  “He ain’t dead, just wounded. He’s being tended to now. Come on, I’ll take you to him.” To the troopers scattered behind the rocks, Gustaffson said, “The rest of you men stay where you are, and for God’s sake, stay alert. If you see anybody move out there, chances are it ain’t a friend.”

  The sergeant led Bo and Scratch to the largest of the tents, where a makeshift field hospital had been set up. By lantern light, one of the troopers was cleaning a bloody gash on Lieutenant Holbrook’s upper left arm where a bullet had creased him. Holbrook looked pale and queasy, and he turned his head away from his wounded arm as if he was afraid the sight of the blood would make him sick.

  “How’s he doing, Wilson?” Gustaffson asked the trooper. The man was older than the usual cavalry private. His weathered face and iron-gray hair put him at least in his forties.

  “He’ll be fine, as long as he doesn’t get blood poisoning,” Trooper Wilson replied. “And I’m doing everything I can to prevent that. The lieutenant was lucky.”

  Luckier than the two soldiers lying on the ground with blankets pulled up over their faces, Bo thought. Blood soaked through those blankets in places. Those troopers hadn’t made it.

  A couple of other men, one with a bloody bandage around his right thigh and another who had been shot through the hand, were in better shape, certainly better than the two fatalities. Holbrook’s wound appeared to be the least serious of the lot.

  The lieutenant winced as Wilson used a carbolic-soaked rag to clean the gash. “Where were you two men?” he demanded of the Texans. “You’re supposed to be helping us! Instead you let those outlaws attack us!”

  “If we hadn’t fired those warning shots, the first shots you heard would have been the ones that killed all your pickets,” Bo said bluntly. “And then the Devils would have riddled all the tents before your men could even crawl out of their blankets. They had plenty of light to aim by, after all, with those fires still burning.”

  Holbrook flushed angrily, which at least got a little color back into his face. “This was our first night out here,” he said. “I didn’t think the Devils would attack us yet—”

  “I don’t reckon they saw any reason to waste time,” Scratch said. “They didn’t like the idea of havin’ a cavalry patrol out here huntin’ ’em.”

  “They’ll soon learn they can’t get away with ambushing the United States Cavalry,” Holbrook snapped. “Sergeant, did we suffer any other casualties?”

  “A few nicks,” Gustaffson answered. “Nothing the men can’t tend to themselves.”

  “Very well.” Holbrook flinched again, this time as Trooper Wilson bound a dressing in place around his arm, and went on. “Organize a burial detail. We’ll lay Troopers Rutherford and Bennett to rest first thing in the morning. Assign one of the uninjured men to accompany Mitchell and Stoneham back to Deadwood.”

  The man who
had been shot through the hand spoke up, saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but I don’t have to go back. I can ride just fine, so I should stay with the patrol.”

  “You may be able to ride,” Holbrook said, “but you can’t handle a rifle one-handed, Stoneham. You’re going back.”

  “I’ll see to it, Lieutenant,” Gustaffson said before the young soldier could protest again.

  Holbrook nodded. “Excellent. The rest of us will continue searching for the enemy.”

  “What about you, sir? You’re injured, too.”

  Holbrook’s face hardened. “I said, the rest of us will continue searching for the enemy. That’s exactly what I meant, Sergeant. Tell the men we’ll be leaving as soon as it’s light enough to follow a trail.” He frowned at Bo and Scratch. “That is, if our scouts think they’ll be able to pick up the trail of the men who ambushed us.”

  Bo could tell that Scratch was about to make some angry response, and he couldn’t blame his old friend for feeling that way. The lieutenant was making it sound like they were somehow responsible for what had happened, when the truth was it had been Holbrook who had ordered those big fires built. Chances were, things would have been a lot worse if the Texans hadn’t done what they did.

  But Holbrook was in no mood to listen to that, Bo knew. To keep Scratch’s hot temper from annoying the officer any further, Bo said quickly, “We’ll be ready, Lieutenant. The Devils may have overplayed their hand this time. Could be they’ll lead us right to their hideout.”

  CHAPTER 18

  When Bo got around to checking his watch, he saw that it was only an hour or so until dawn. No point in trying to go back to sleep now, he decided, and Scratch felt the same way, so they walked back to the trees where they had been camped earlier and fetched their horses to the main camp. The animals were unharmed, as Bo had hoped.

  It was unlikely the Devils would come calling again tonight, and if they did, all the troopers were alert and on edge after the attack. They wouldn’t be surprised a second time.

  As a cold gray light appeared in the sky, Bo saw that more clouds had moved in. The wind picked up, blowing harder. Scratch gazed at the thick overcast and said, “Looks like we might be in for a blue norther.”

  “I don’t think they call them that up here in Dakota Territory,” Bo said.

  “Well, whatever they call it, could be some rough weather on the way.” Scratch looked over at Bo. “Say, what’s the date?”

  Bo pondered that for a moment, then said, “The twenty-fourth, I think.”

  “Son of a gun. Tomorrow’s Thanksgivin’. No turkey feast for us, I reckon.” Scratch shook his head. “Although with that wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant in charge, I reckon I’ll be plenty thankful if we’re still alive tomorrow.”

  Bo couldn’t argue with that.

  He and Scratch rode over to the trees where the Devils had hidden to launch their ambush, and they had a look around. There wasn’t much to see, just some empty shell casings littering the ground. Any wounded outlaws had been taken with the rest of the gang. The Texans dismounted and walked the same direction the outlaws had fled the night before. Scratch pointed out some broken branches and rocks that had been turned over.

  “They were in too big a hurry to cover their tracks,” he said. “If we’re lucky, maybe they were that careless all the way back to their hideout.”

  Bo grunted. He didn’t think that was too likely.

  They found the spot where the outlaws had left their horses. Hoofprints led away from there, following the ridge to the southwest. Of course, there really wasn’t anywhere else for the gang to go. The walls of the gulches on both sides of the ridge were too steep for the horses to handle in all but a few places.

  By the time the Texans returned to camp, the two troopers who were killed in the ambush had been buried, and Gustaffson was getting the men ready to ride. Lieutenant Holbrook came up to meet Bo and Scratch. He wore his left arm in a black silk sling that Trooper Wilson had rigged.

  “Did you find the trail?” Holbrook demanded.

  Bo nodded. “It won’t be much trouble to follow.”

  “Good! I’d like to catch up to those outlaws and deal with them today, if possible. There’s no need to give them another chance to ambush us tonight.”

  “Now that I agree with, Lieutenant. Are you sure you’ll be able to handle the ride?”

  “What should I do?” Holbrook snapped. “Go back to Deadwood with my tail between my legs and leave the patrol under the command of Sergeant Gustaffson and a couple of civilians?”

  “Well—” Scratch began.

  “We just don’t want you to get blood poisoning, like Trooper Wilson warned you about,” Bo cut in.

  “I’m fine.” Holbrook made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Let’s get on the trail of those thieves and killers.”

  The sky had lightened a little more, but the clouds were so thick Bo figured the heavens would remain gloomy and overcast the rest of the day.

  Sergeant Gustaffson must have felt the same way. As the patrol proceeded along the ridge, the non-com brought his horse up beside Bo’s and said, “That sky looks so threatening I expect old Odin to part the clouds at any minute and glare down at us with his one good eye as he pronounces judgment on us. He’ll have all the rest of those grim, gray gods with him.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Scratch asked from Bo’s other side.

  Gustaffson laughed and shook his head. “Nothing. Folks in the part of the world where my family comes from tend to be a mite down in the mouth most of the time. I reckon you would be, too, if it was always cold and dark where you lived.”

  “Maybe,” Scratch said. “I like Mexico, myself. Warm sun and good food and pretty little señoritas . . . It’s plumb peaceful down there.”

  “Yeah, that’s not what you thought the last time we were there and all those hombres tried to kill us,” Bo pointed out.

  “Well, everywhere has its drawbacks, I suppose.”

  Something else occurred to Bo. Quietly, he said to Gustaffson, “Trooper Wilson did a good job taking care of those wounded men. Almost like he had medical training.”

  Gustaffson looked around to make sure no one was riding very close to them before he said, “Yeah, Wilson’s good enough at patching up wounds that it’s almost like he was a surgeon back during the War Between the States. I’ll bet some of those doctors who wore Confederate gray changed their names and came west after the war. A cavalry troop would be mighty lucky to have a fella like that join up with them.”

  “As long as some of the men who still hate Rebels didn’t know about it,” Bo said.

  Gustaffson nodded. “Yeah. As long as that was true.”

  Satisfied now, Bo let the subject drop. But it was good to know that they had a man with the knowledge and skill to treat the wounded with them.

  Because there was no doubt in Bo’s mind that more blood would be spilled before this was over.

  By late morning, the patrol reached a spot where several ridges came together. Craggy cliffs rose above them. A number of canyons cut into those cliffs, the walls leaning toward each other like the jaws of a trap about to snap shut.

  Lieutenant Holbrook reined in and signaled for the patrol to halt. He turned to Bo and Scratch and said, “I suppose now it’ll become more difficult to follow the trail, since there are several ways they could have gone.”

  “Yeah, they may have even split up,” Scratch said.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Bo added.

  The silver-haired Texan swung down from his saddle. “Let me take a look around,” Scratch said.

  For several minutes Scratch walked back and forth, studying the ground. Large stretches of it were too rocky to take a print, but there were other ways of following a trail. Finally, Scratch rejoined Bo and the lieutenant and said, “It looks like they stayed together and rode into that center canyon.”

  He pointed out the opening in the cliffs he was talking about. I
t was twenty feet wide and ran straight for perhaps fifty yards before it took a sharp turn.

  “Are you sure?” Holbrook asked. “I don’t see any tracks at all.”

  “Horses can’t travel over rocky ground without turnin’ over some of the rocks, and their shoes leave little nicks and scratches on the rocks, too,” Scratch explained. “And there are places where there’s enough dirt to pick up part of a hoofprint. I can see enough sign to tell that a bunch of riders came through here in the past twelve hours, and there ain’t nothin’ pointin’ to any of those other canyons.” Scratch nodded. “That’s the way they went, all right. You can count on it.”

  “And if Scratch says it, you can believe it,” Bo put in. “He’s a fine tracker. Always has been.”

  “All right,” Holbrook said. “That means we go after them.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Bo said. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Holbrook frowned at him. “What do you mean? We came out here to track down the Deadwood Devils, didn’t we? Who else could it have been that attacked us last night?”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t the Devils,” Bo replied. “I’m saying it might not be a good idea to follow them into that canyon. Can’t you see that it’s a perfect setting for another ambush?”

  Scratch added, “They haven’t gone to any trouble to cover their trail, Lieutenant. It’s sorta like they want us to follow ’em.”

  “Nonsense,” Holbrook said. “They were just in a hurry to get away once it became obvious that their ambush wasn’t going to work.”

  “I don’t know,” Bo said. “Maybe they thought it would be easier just to lure you into a trap.”

  Sergeant Gustaffson had listened to the conversation with great interest. Now he spoke up, saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but what these fellas are saying makes sense. If those outlaws really wanted to get away, they could have split up here and gone half a dozen different directions. Instead they stayed together and rode into that canyon.”

  “Which is probably where their hideout is located,” Holbrook said with irritation and impatience in his voice. “You men don’t seem to understand. This is our chance to catch them all together and wipe them out. The best time to attack is when the enemy is concentrated in one spot. You’d understand that if you’d been trained in tactics like I have.”