Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  PRAISE FOR

  RALPH COMPTON

  “Compton writes in the style of popular Western novelists like Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey…thrilling stories of Western legend.”

  —The Huntsville Times (AL)

  “Compton may very well turn out to be the greatest Western writer of them all…. Very seldom in literature have the legends of the Old West been so vividly painted.”

  —The Tombstone Epitaph

  The Sundown Riders

  DEVIL’S CANYON

  Ralph Compton

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  [set Penguin logo]

  USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 1998

  Copyright © Ralph Compton, 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN: 978-1-101-62649-8

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  This work is respectfully dedicated

  to my brother,

  William F. (Bill) Compton.

  THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

  The saga of the “American Cowboy” was sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

  True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

  In my travels—which include Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—there’s something within me that remembers. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West, of the American frontier?

  It has been epitomized by some as a dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes, Crockett, Bowie, Hickock, Earp, have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

  It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

  —Ralph Compton

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Foreword

  In 1821, William Becknell first opened a trade route from Independence, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. It quickly became known as the Santa Fe Trail, and for more than seventy years—until the coming of the railroad—trains of pack mules and heavy freight wagons moved millions of dollars in goods to the western frontier.

  But for some, Santa Fe was the “jumping-off place,” the beginning of their quest for riches, for New Mexico was sheep country. In California there was a ready market for wool, and an abundance of horses and mules, which were in short supply in New Mexico. But following the war with Mexico—when Mexico ceded California to the United States—a series of changes began that eliminated commerce between Santa Fe and Los Angeles.

  The discovery of gold attracted miners from as far away as England, China, and Japan, while California’s ready access to the Pacific made its ports attractive to sailing ships from around the world. By 1855, goods muled in from Santa Fe were no longer worth the cost and the danger.

  The country west of Santa Fe had little attraction, except for groups of Mormons who had settled in northern Utah, near the great salt lakes. But there were a few hardy souls who fought the land, the elements, and the Ute Indians to prospect for gold along the rivers of south central and southern Utah. The land, as one old prospector put it, “warn’t good fer nothin’ but holdin’ the world together.” There was cactus, scorpions, rattlesnakes, cougars, and grizzlies. Men sweated by day and froze by night. The land was laced with a variety of canyons and arroyos that flooded during cloudbursts, and when dry, provided excellent cover for hostile Utes with ambush on their minds. In the mountains, the weather was as unpredictable as the land was dangerous. Within a matter of hours, men could be drenched by cloudbursts, pelted by hailstones, or frozen by sleet and snow.

  In the glory days, when traders risked their lives to reach gold-rich California, there were no wagons west of Santa Fe. There were only pack mules, and with good reason. The terrain was such that a wagon might be forced to travel for miles just to avoid a deep and dangerous arroyo. But miners—snowed in for the winter in the mountains of southwestern Utah—seldom owned enough pack mules to freight in needed goods, and removing gold ore by mule was a slow, dangerous process. That, and the fact there was a continual lack of mules in New Mexico. A good mule, when one could be had, sold for as much as two hundred dollars.

  Some miners, desperate for a means of freighting in goods and freighting out gold ore, sought out teamsters who were bold enough to take their wagons into the treacherous mountains. Men who armed themselves with Bowie knives, repeating rifles, and Colt revolvers. These men, who fought hostile Indians, outlaws, the elements, and the land itself, were the first mercenaries. These were the Sundown Riders, blazing a trail ever westward.

  Prologue

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. August 1, 1870.

  “It ain’t hard to spot a galoot that’s spent all his days lookin’ at the stinkin’ end of a mule,” said the big man with a black, bushy beard. “His face gits to lookin’ just like that mule’s behind.”

  He sat across the table from Faro Duval, a teamster from Independence, Missouri, who had just won his fourth pot and ended the game.

  “Juno Shankler,” said the barkeep, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun, “you ain’t startin’ no fight in here. Git up and git out.”

  Faro’s fellow teamsters—Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver—had their backs to the wall, their hands on the butts of their Colts.

  “Faro,” Dallas said, “back off. He makes a move, we’ll fill him full of lead. Lay down that scattergun, barkeep. If anything’s to be settled, we’ll s
ettle it outside.”

  “You got it, mule jockeys,” said Shankler. “One at a time, by God, or all at once.”

  “I stomp my own snakes,” Faro said. “If anybody needs help, it’ll be you.”

  Slowly the barkeep lowered the shotgun, as Faro backed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. When he reached the door, he nodded to his three companions. While Faro stood there, his hand on the butt of his holstered Colt, Shanghai, Tarno, and Dallas filed out of the saloon. Faro then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  “Don’t be a damn fool, Shankler,” said a patron who had seen the play. “You’re callin’ out an hombre with the bark on. He ain’t like the glory-hungry kids you’re used to.”

  “Mind your own damn business, Hugo,” Shankler said.

  Shankler stepped out the saloon door onto the boardwalk. Faro leaned against a hitch rail on the other side of the street. Faro’s three companions stood aside, out of the line of fire. Shankler hitched up his gun belt and tilted his hat over his eyes.

  “There’s still time to back off, Shankler,” said Faro.

  “I could say the same fer you,” Shankler said. “I just don’t think you’re man enough to take me, bucko.”

  “When you’re ready, then,” said Faro.

  Shankler drew first, and his gun was only half out of his holster when Faro’s lead hit him just above the left pocket of his shirt. He stumbled back against the saloon door and it opened, allowing him to collapse on the floor. Men who had been watching out the window of the saloon gathered around.

  “Old Juno’s been askin’ fer that,” somebody said. “He’s always been long on guts an’ short on judgment.”

  “Somebody git the sheriff,” said the barkeep. “I want his carcass took out, an’ I ain’t wantin’ it said he was shot in here.”

  The sheriff arrived in due time. He was in the saloon only a few minutes when he went looking for Faro Duval. Faro had remained standing where he had been when he had been forced to shoot Shankler. His three companions had moved in behind him.

  “You got witnesses a-plenty,” said the lawman. “I’m Sheriff Easton. Who are you?”

  “I’m Faro Duval. These are my partners, Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver. We’re not wanted and we’re not huntin’ anybody. We drove in four wagon loads of freight from Independence, and we’ll be goin’ back there, soon as we scare up some freight to take with us.”

  “I’m some relieved to hear that,” said Easton. “There’s others around here that’s of the same mind as Juno. I’d not want them testing you.”

  “That’s entirely up to them,” Faro said. “I take no pleasure in killin’ a man, but some won’t settle for anything less.”

  “Then take my advice and stay out of the saloons,” said the lawman.

  Easton started back to the saloon just as a tall man in miner’s clothes stepped out on the boardwalk.

  “Wait up, gents,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Faro and his companions waited, and when he was near enough, the stranger spoke again.

  “I’m Levi Collins. I gathered from what I heard that you men are teamsters.”

  “We are,” said Faro. “We just brought four wagon loads of freight from Independence, and we’re lookin’ for some freight bound for there. I’m Faro Duval, and my partners are Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver. What can we do for you?”

  Collins rested his eyes on each of them for a moment, liking what he saw. They stood over six feet, Faro and Shanghai with dark hair, while Tarno and Dallas had hair the color of wheat straw. To a man, they were dressed like cowboys, from their wide-brimmed hats to their undershot, high-heeled boots. Collins judged them all less than twenty-five, and all four carried tied-down Colts. Collins spoke.

  “It’s near suppertime. I’m buying, if you’ll listen to what I have to say. I may have some work for you.”

  “You don’t look like an hombre needin’ four loads of freight hauled to Independence,” said Dallas.

  Collins laughed. “To the contrary, the hauling I have in mind will take you west, but the reward will be great.”

  “We’ll listen,” Faro said, “but I won’t promise any more than that.”

  “That’s all I ask,” said Collins.

  He led the way to a cafe, and men were already pointing to Faro as a result of his having gunned down Juno Shankler. They took their seats near the back of the cafe, and Collins spoke again.

  “You’re mighty sudden with a pistol, Mr. Duval. Do the rest of you…”

  His voice trailed off, for the eyes of the four men had suddenly grown cold.

  “I…I didn’t mean that like it probably sounded,” said Collins. “What I should have said is that the journey I am about to propose will take us through Ute country, and how handy a man is with a gun could mean the difference between living and dying.”

  “We manage to protect ourselves and our freight,” Tarno Spangler said.

  “Yes,” said Shanghai Taylor, “and in case you’re wondering, we can carry our weight with Winchesters, too.”

  Collins laughed. “That’s exactly what I was wondering. I don’t have to tell you that, during an Indian attack, it’s important to pick off as many as possible before they get in close with their arrows.”

  “Now that you’ve got our attention,” said Faro, “why don’t you lay the rest of your cards on the table?”

  “I aim to,” Collins replied. “Isaac Puckett, Felix Blackburn, Josh Snyder, and me have a gold claim on the Sevier River, in southwestern Utah. We’re lookin’ for teamsters with the sand to wagon in supplies, and when we have enough ore, haul it out.”

  “Whoa,” said Dallas. “I seem to recall there was once a trade route through there, to California. That country’s got more canyons and arroyos than Kansas has prairie dogs, and it’s nigh impossible for anything to get through there, except mules.”

  “If we was goin’ all the way to California, I’d have to agree,” Collins said, “but takin’ care, a good teamster can get a wagon as far as our claim on the Sevier River.”

  “Givin’ you the benefit of the doubt,” said Faro, “how far would that be?”

  “Five hundred miles,” Collins replied.

  “My God,” said Shanghai, “and there’s hostile Utes between here and there?”

  “Entirely too damned many,” Collins said. “The canyons and arroyos, when they’re not flooded, are prime prospects for an Indian ambush.”

  “For a gent hopeful of hirin’ teamsters, you ain’t painted a very rosy picture,” said Tarno.

  “I didn’t intend to,” Collins replied. “I’m not one to mislead a man.”

  “So far,” said Faro, “that’s the biggest thing in your favor. As a rule, we don’t look for work that appears easy. If it was, either it wouldn’t pay worth a damn, or everybody would be clamorin’ for it. Pay-wise, what are you offering?”

  “A thousand dollars a man for all of you,” Collins said.

  “If we was just haulin’ in your supplies, then turnin’ around and bringin’ out your ore, that’s a fair price,” said Faro, “but from what you’ve said, you have considerably more than that in mind. Am I right, when I say you have yet to work the mine, before there is any ore?”

  “You are correct,” Collins said. “Before I come here to buy supplies and to try and hire some teamsters, my partners and me reckoned we’d have to sweeten the pot. Here’s what we come up with.”

  From an inside coat pocket, he removed a sheet of paper which he unfolded and gave to Faro. After studying it, he passed it around the table to his three companions. Each of them read it, and Shanghai passed it back to Collins. Faro spoke.

  “You’re offering a quarter-share of your claim to us, for our services, then.”

  “That’s right,” said Collins, “and them services would include takin’ the time for us to work the mine, to produce some ore. You’d likely be there until spring, at least.”

/>   “Madre mía,” Dallas said, “and how are we supposed to keep ourselves occupied for all them months?”

  “You likely could shorten that time, if you help us work the claim,” said Collins, “or if that don’t appeal to you, there’s hostile Utes to be shot.”

  “By God,” Tarno said, “you do make it sound interesting. Was it just me, I’d likely go along with you, but these other hombres…”

  “These other hombres have another question,” said Faro. “How do we know we won’t break our backs on a hard-scrabble claim for a year, shootin’ hostile Utes in between, only to have this claim come up dry, without enough gold to fill a tooth?”

  Collins laughed. “I expected that.”

  He looked carefully around, and when it appeared nobody was watching, removed a small canvas sack from his coat pocket. He then removed his hat, and turning it upside down on the table, dumped the contents of the sack into it. There was a dozen or more hunks of rock, each of them shot full of thin veins of gold. Faro hefted one, and found it predictably heavy.

  “My God,” Tarno said, “that’d put the Lost Dutchman to shame. There’s more?”

  “Yes,” said Collins, “and to answer your next question, we don’t know exactly how much more.”

  “I’ve done some prospectin’ in my time,” Shanghai said, “and mostly there’s just two kinds of gold to be found. There’s dust and nuggets, generally washed down from a higher elevation, and you may poke around for the rest of your days, without findin’ the source. Then there’s the other kind—like this—that’s been dug from a vein.”

  “Yeah,” said Dallas, “but that vein may pinch out after a few feet.”

  “That’s always a possibility,” Collins conceded, “but this comes from just one of many such veins.”

  “If there’s more of this,” said Faro, “you have a bonanza. Have you registered the claim and had the ore assayed?”

  “No,” Collins replied, “and I have my reasons. We don’t want to start a gold rush, because we don’t know where this claim will take us, and fightin’ the Utes is plenty bad enough, without havin’ to shoot claim jumpers. We figure to work the claim for a year. If there’s plenty more gold, then we’ll register the claim and stick with it until she runs dry. But as you can see, it’s rich enough that a year’s worth of diggin’ can set us all up for the rest of our lives.”