Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  “Too much belly on her.”

  There were half a dozen men in the place, and one of them laughed. But the barkeep seemed suddenly struck dumb.

  “You behind the bar,” said Mamie. “We’re lookin’ for a gamblin’ man dressed all in black, like a turkey buzzard. Goes by the name of Durham. He been in here?”

  “Y…yes, ma’am,” the barkeep stammered. “Started some trouble, and the sheriff told him to git out of town.”

  “When was this?” Mamie demanded.

  “Two days ago,” said the barkeep. “He was leavin’ with some teamsters.”

  Without another word, the McCutcheons left the saloon and stood on the boardwalk.

  “He’s likely gone by now,” said Odessa.

  “No matter,” Mamie said. “We’ll ask around town. Somebody will know if there’s been wagons takin’ the trail. We’ll just saddle up, and when the time and place is right, give old Hal one hell of a surprise.”

  Chapter 2

  Faro kept the wagons moving until near sundown, for the Rio Chama provided plenty of water. After unharnessing his teams, Durham did nothing, and nobody seemed to expect anything of him. Levi Collins soon had a supper fire going, and when the teamsters had unhitched their teams, they set about preparing supper.

  “There’ll be rain before morning,” Collins predicted.

  “That won’t slow us none,” said Shanghai, “unless there’s some sloughs ahead. Long as there’s high ground, we can move on.”

  “Yeah,” Tarno said, “unless that high ground gets too high. On steep slopes, after a good rain, that mud can get slick as goose grease. Mules’ hooves and wagon wheels slip and slide.”

  “Once we reach higher elevations,” said Collins, “there’ll be mostly rock. Maybe even rock slides. You’ll have to take it slow, maybe detourin’ around ruts and drop-offs that could bust a wheel or axle.”

  “That’s why there’s a pick and shovel in each of our wagons,” Faro said. “Sometimes in rough country, you can lose a day avoiding a particularly bad stretch. Sometimes, with all of us pitchin’ in, we can make it passable in a couple of hours.”

  “Pick and shovel work is one thing I don’t like about the teamstering business,” said Dallas. “I told my daddy when I left the farm, I wasn’t ever layin’ my blistered hands on another pick or shovel.”

  Faro laughed. “I recollect sayin’ somethin’ like that, myself. Ain’t it funny how life plays tricks on a man, so he ends up eatin’ more crow than bacon and beans?”

  “I hope,” Durham said, speaking for the first time, “that where we’re goin’, and our purpose for goin’ there is worth pickin’ and shovelin’ our way through these mountains.”

  “We think so,” said Collins, choosing his words carefully. “It’s you that’s bound for California. I reckon you’ll have to decide whether pickin’ and shovelin’ another seven hundred miles by yourself is worth your reason for going.”

  It was the perfect answer, but rather than allow the exchange to continue, Faro Duval quickly changed the subject.

  “Starting tonight, we’ll take turns standing watch. There’s six of us, and I’d suggest we have only two watches. Three of us can take it until midnight, and the remaining three can take it until dawn. I’ll take either watch, but I prefer the second.”

  “So do I,” said Collins.

  “I want the second watch,” Durham said.

  “That settles it, then,” said Faro, “unless Shanghai, Tarno, or Dallas objects.”

  There were no objections, and at dusk, Faro, Collins, and Durham each spread their blankets beneath one of the wagons. They would have barely six hours to sleep. Prior to dousing the supper fire, Shanghai, Dallas, and Tarno refilled their tin cups from the big black coffeepot. The wind being from the west, they hunkered downwind from camp, so that their conversation might not be overheard.

  “By God,” said Tarno, “that Durham’s got somethin’ up his sleeve besides some extra cards. He wants to know almighty bad where we’re headed, and why.”

  “Yeah,” Dallas agreed, “but he ain’t got the guts to come right out and ask.”

  “He’s no fool,” said Shanghai. “He can’t get too nosy without tippin’ his hand. Hell, we ain’t fools, neither, and he can’t let us know he’s all that interested.”

  “But we do know,” Dallas said, “and it’s almighty important that we learn why he’s so interested. Sometimes it’s the way of thieves to throw in with you, eat your grub, and all the while, be takin’ your measure. Then, when the time’s right, the rest of ’em show up, their guns blazing.”

  “It purely looks like we’re into that kind of situation,” said Shanghai, “but it makes me wonder how they worked it out so slick. The same day we come up one wagon shy, this mouthy cardsharp shows up with mules and a wagon. I don’t believe for a minute he aims to go on to California. That’s to give him his excuse for trailing with us.”

  Durham had purposely spread his blankets beneath the farthest wagon, so that his movements wouldn’t rouse Faro Duval or Levi Collins. Somehow he had to learn why these wagon loads of goods were being taken into mountains infested with hostile Utes, and since Levi Collins was bankrolling the whole thing, Collins should have some answers. Finally, when he could hear Faro and Collins snoring, Durham rolled back his blankets and got to his knees. From beneath his coat he drew a .32-caliber Colt pocket pistol and began crawling slowly toward the wagon where Levi Collins slept. Clouds were being swept in from the west, but there was sufficient starlight for Durham to reach the sleeping Collins. Coming in behind the wagon, he could see Collins’s head resting on his saddle. Raising his Colt, Durham slammed its muzzle into the back of the sleeping man’s head. Collins only grunted once, and Durham feared he hadn’t struck hard enough, but there was no movement. He might have only two or three minutes, at best, and Durham had to settle for quickly going through Levi Collins’s coat. The first thing his seeking hands found was the canvas sack in which Collins carried the ore samples. Durham, smart enough to realize it was some kind of ore, seized a hunk of it, just as Collins groaned. He started to club Collins again, but the teamsters on watch were downwind, and had heard Collins. Clouds had swallowed up the starlight, and it was all that saved Durham. He was barely in his blankets, breathing hard, when Collins groaned louder. Faro was nearest, and the first to respond.

  “Collins, what’s wrong?”

  “We heard him,” said Dallas, as he and his companions came on the run.

  “Something…somebody…knocked me in the head,” Collins replied.

  “Durham,” Faro demanded, “where are you?”

  “In my blankets,” said Durham, trying to sound sleepy. “Why?”

  “Somebody just slugged Collins,” Faro said.

  “And you’re thinking it might have been me,” said Durham.

  “The possibility had crossed my mind,” Faro said grimly.

  “Maybe he whacked his head on a wagon wheel,” said Durham. “I just now hit my own, when I sat up.”

  “No,” Collins said, speaking for himself, “somebody deliberately slugged me.”

  “Might have been a thief,” said Tarno. “See if you’re missing anything.”

  Collins crawled out from beneath the wagon, and taking hold of a rear wheel, managed to stand. He rummaged through all his pockets.

  “Nothing is missing,” Collins said.

  “We heard you groan,” said Shanghai. “Maybe that scared him away.”

  “Question is,” Faro said, “if it was an intended robbery, how did the thief know to go after Collins? Why not Durham or me?”

  “Hell, we’re not more than twenty miles from town,” said Durham. “You think Collins bought five wagon loads of goods without somebody making note of it? We were followed, and Collins was figured to be the one with the money.”

  “That’s not bad reasoning,” Collins said. “From now on, I’ll sleep with my pistol in my hand.”

  “I think we’ll have to do a
better job securing the camp,” said Faro. “If you were a target once, you could be again. Shanghai, Tarno, Dallas, it’s up to you to see that there are no more attempts like tonight.”

  “Well, hell,” Dallas said, “we wasn’t looking for trouble, except from the Utes, and it is just a few miles back to Santa Fe.”

  “Now you know different,” said Faro. “From here on, take nothing for granted. This should be proof enough that we have more to concern us than just the Utes. The deadliest and most effective defense is to secure your own camp, and then shoot anything moving in the dark. Collins—you and Durham—once you take to your blankets, are to remain there until time to begin your watch. Comprende?”

  “Yes,” Collins said, “although that seems a little extreme.”

  “Damn right it does,” said Durham. “You expect a man to drink a pot of coffee and then hold it for six hours?”

  “I don’t expect a man with brains God gave a prairie dog to drink a pot of coffee, knowin’ he’s got to hold it for six hours,” Faro said. “The rule stands.”

  “You gents better get what sleep you can,” said Tarno. “Second watch is less than two hours away.”

  “Yeah,” Shanghai said, “we can stand here and jaw the rest of the night, and it won’t change a thing. Come first light, we can look for tracks.”

  But the rain Collins had predicted arrived before dawn. Faro had equipped each of the wagons with a canvas shelter that could be erected behind the wagon, providing a dry area for a cook fire and the preparation of a meal. By crowding it a little, the men were able to get out of the rain to eat their breakfast and drink their coffee.

  “I’m not accustomed to this convenience on the trail,” said Collins, “but I appreciate it. You know, a man can ride all day with rain blowin’ in his face and pourin’ off the brim of his hat down the collar of his shirt, but when it’s grub time, he don’t want that rain in his grub or in his coffee. I’ve never understood that.”

  Faro laughed. “A small victory for mankind. Rain could drive a man crazy, if there wasn’t some escape from it. Even if it’s only while he’s eatin’ his grub and drinkin’ his coffee.”

  They took the trail, with a chill wind from the west whipping rain into their faces and causing the mules to balk. The rain ceased after two hours, but ominous gray clouds hung low, blocking the sun. In their wet clothing, the wind seemed unseasonably cold. Not until late afternoon did the skies clear, allowing a timid sun to emerge. Levi Collins had ridden on ahead, and when he returned, he loped his horse alongside Faro’s wagon.

  “Up yonder, maybe three miles,” Collins said, “there’s a broken ridge runnin’ parallel to the Rio Chama. It’ll shelter us from the wind. Might be a good place to hole up for the night and dry out.”

  “Bueno,” said Faro. “Ride back and tell the others.”

  The ridge provided welcome relief from the chill wind, and though it was still early, the teamsters unharnessed their teams. In the “possum bellies”—cowhides slung beneath each wagon—there was dry wood, and soon there was a roaring fire going. Men gathered around, seeking to dry their sodden clothing before dark. It was as good a time as any for Faro to talk to them.

  “Tonight—and every night from now on—the three of us who are sleeping will stay close to one another. No sleeping under different wagons. That attack on Collins last night might have been avoided, if Durham and me had been closer. From now on, we will be.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Durham said, “that won’t stop Indians.”

  “Indian trouble will come soon enough,” said Faro, “but our visitor last night wasn’t an Indian. Instead of slugging Collins unconscious, an Indian would have slit his throat. We have white men—probably outlaws—stalking us.”

  “That makes no sense,” Durham scoffed, “unless there’s something far more valuable in these wagons than the supplies you loaded in Santa Fe.”

  “What you’ve said makes even less sense,” said Dallas. “How does anybody learn what might be in the wagons by slugging Collins?”

  “Well,” Durham said, “there’s bills of lading, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Collins, “and they’re in my coat pocket, where they were last night. But I can assure you, there are no secrets to be found within them. You—or anyone else—had an opportunity to watch the wagons being loaded.”

  Durham said no more, for he was treading on dangerous ground. During the day, he had studied the piece of ore he had taken from Collins, and even to his inexperienced eye, the threads of gold set his heart to pounding. Now that he knew the secret purpose of the expedition, his devious mind began considering ways of dealing himself in, while eliminating Slade and his outlaw companions. Of necessity, Slade must be convinced these wagon loads of goods were to sustain some distant colony through the winter, and nothing more. The sooner Slade could be contacted and convinced of the futility of further pursuit, the more likely that he and his men would ride back to Santa Fe in search of other pickings. With that thought in mind, Durham made his first move right after supper.

  “Durham,” said Faro, “where are you goin’?”

  “Some private business,” Durham said, “before your shoot-anything-that-moves order kicks in at dark.”

  “Risky, goin’ out alone,” said Faro.

  “Your concern is touching,” Durham said, “but if I needed one of you to go along and hold my hand, I’d have asked.”

  “Ask and be-damned,” said Tarno Spangler. “None of us is that kind.”

  The rest of them laughed, and Durham went on, satisfied that they wouldn’t follow. Slade had come much closer to camp than Durham had expected, and when suddenly the outlaw appeared, Durham was startled.

  “Well,” Slade demanded, “what have you learned?”

  “Nothing of any interest to you,” said Durham, hoping he was lying convincingly. “All I’ve learned is that these supplies are for the winter, and that they’re going to settlers in southern Utah. I’ve seen what’s in the wagons, and there’s nothing but some ammunition and grub.”

  “You lie,” Slade snarled. “I had Withers watchin through a glass, and he seen cases of dynamite bein loaded. Enough dynamite to blow Utah into the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Well, hell,” said Durham, “I wasn’t there for the actual loading of the wagons. All I could do was look in through the puckers, and I couldn’t afford to seem too interested.”

  “You’d better get more interested, and you’d better do it quick,” Slade said. “There’s more to this than supplies bein’ hauled in for the winter. If you don’t come up with some information we can use, we’ll lay an ambush, gun everybody down, and figure it all out for ourselves.”

  “And you’ll learn nothing,” said Durham desperately. “If there’s anything to be learned it’ll have to come from them, but not if they’re dead.”

  “I’m not the patient kind,” Slade said, “especially when I think I’m bein’ strung along. I don’t make threats, either, so you can take what I said about that ambush as gospel. To the last man, Durham. By God, to the last man.”

  Slade turned and walked away, the finality of his words ringing in Durham’s ears. He had been told, in no uncertain terms, that if an ambush became necessary, he would die with the others. Durham fought down the tremors of fear that crept up his spine, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. He knew, as surely as if the outlaw had spoken the words aloud, that if he betrayed the valiant men with the wagons, he would never share any of the spoils. His reward would be a lead slug, probably in the back. It strengthened his resolve, and as he made his way back to the wagons, his devious mind dealt him an inside straight. He would double-cross Slade, and his double-cross would be the granddaddy of them all.

  Sante Fe, New Mexico. August 4, 1870.

  Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon had no difficulty discovering which way the wagons had gone. At the mercantile, they loaded their saddlebags with supplies. They then mounted their horses and rode northwest, along the Ri
o Chama.

  “Five wagons,” Odessa said. “We’re on the right trail.”

  “That storekeeper was right helpful,” said Mamie. “He remembered them teamsters was needin’ a fifth wagon. Just in time, with no mules or wagons for sale, they come up with one.”

  “It’s all the better for us,” Odessa said. “If Durham’s throwed in with experienced teamsters, maybe the Indians won’t burn our wagon and eat our mules.”

  “What we don’t know,” said Mamie, “is where these wagons are going. I can’t imagine being stuck somewhere between here and California, in Indian country, with only Durham. Can you?”

  Odessa sighed. “It does strain the imagination. I’m thinking, if these teamsters are fair men, they’ll allow us to return with them to Santa Fe, bringing our mules and wagon. For that matter, perhaps we can sell the teams and wagon to them, for the thousand dollars we gave Durham.”

  “Oh, God,” Mamie said, “to recover our mules and wagon, I hope we don’t have to tell them everything.”

  “That he compromised our honor, and that if he hadn’t run out on us, we’d have willingly gone with him, allowing him to compromise it some more?”

  “Especially that,” said Mamie. “Oh, what is that damnable fault in females that leads them to make fools of themselves over no-account men?”

  “It goes with the territory,” Odessa said. “What else is a woman goin’ to make a fool of herself over?”

  They were only a few miles from town, when Odessa reined up.

  “What is it?” Mamie asked.

  “Tracks,” said Odessa. “Horse tracks.”

  “Durham had a saddle horse,” Mamie said, “and it’s likely tied behind the wagon. The other teamsters may have horses too.”

  “No matter,” said Odessa. “There’s tracks of four horses that are on top of all the other horse, mule, and wagon tracks. Four riders are followin’ the freight wagons.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mamie replied. “Since Durham took everything we had to give, you have become unnaturally suspicious.”