Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  The clouds swept in, and by early afternoon, the warm sun was a memory. The wind was out of the northwest, and had an icy bite to it. But the wagons were within sight of the tree-lined hollow when the first windblown sleet rattled off the wagon canvas.

  “Line the wagons up lengthwise, as close as you can get them,” Faro ordered. “We’ll want them strung out along the hollow, beyond the run-off. Unharness the teams. Then I’ll want Shanghai, Tarno, and Dallas to help me erect the snow and wind breaks. The rest of you—Levi, Isaac, Felix, and Josh—take the available horses and begin snaking in some fallen trees for firewood. Get as many as you can. Without canyon walls, we’ll need more and bigger fires, just to be comfortable.”

  Faro, Shanghai, Tarno, and Dallas broke out the protective canvas they carried. There was none for the fifth wagon, so they set to work on the remaining four. With U-bolts at each end, they anchored a sturdy hickory pole to the first and last wagon bows as high up as they could reach. The pole had brass hooks at twelve-inch intervals that matched the brass eyelets in the long side of the canvas barrier. A similar pole with brass hooks was then placed flat on the ground and U-bolted to a front and rear wagon wheel. When a long protective canvas barrier was secured at top and bottom, the bulk of the heavy wagon securing it, the four men moved on to the next wagon. When four such barriers had been put in place, they set about erecting the overhead canvas. To the same pole that was bolted to the wagon bows front and back, they quickly hooked brass eyelets in the canvas that ran the length of the wagon. At the end of each wagon, a dozen feet distant, they drove into the ground an iron spike five feet in length. At the upper end of the spike was an iron ring, and within each wagon was an iron rod, each end of which fitted the iron ring. At proper intervals along the iron rod were hooks for securing the long end of the canvas. Durham and the McCutcheons had watched the shelters taking shape, not offering to help, and when they were near finished, Mamie spoke.

  “You got too much slope on the outside, where it comes away from the wagon. If the iron posts you drove into the ground was longer, the overhead canvas could be flat, with more headroom.”

  “It could also accumulate enough snow to bring it down on your head, likely taking the wagon bows and canvas with it,” Dallas said.

  “Yeah,” said Tarno, with ill-concealed disgust, “we’ve done this a time or two before, and we’re startin’ to get the hang of it.”

  Collins and his companions had dragged in their first load of wood and had gone after more. Faro turned to Durham and spoke.

  “I know it’s asking a hell of a lot, but could you get an ax and begin chopping that wood into decent lengths?”

  To Faro’s surprise, Durham said nothing. He took an ax from one of the wagons and attacked one of the tree trunks. Without being asked, the McCutcheons took kindling from beneath a wagon’s possum belly and got a fire going under one of the canvas shelters by the time Collins and his companions returned with more snaked-in firewood.

  “We’ll have to ride a ways to find more wood,” Collins said.

  “One more run, then,” said Faro. “Shanghai, Tarno, Dallas, and me will take a turn.”

  “The rest of us will get some axes, then, and whittle this down to firewood length,” Collins said.

  “You know,” said Felix Blackburn, as they went for the axes, “these shelters attached to the lee side of the wagons may be exactly what we’ll need when we begin working the claim. Once we change the course of that river into Devil’s Canyon, there won’t be a lick of shelter. It’s all on the side that’ll be dynamited away.”

  “I think we’d better avoid speaking of diverting the river into Devil’s Canyon,” Collins said. “At least, until we must reveal the need.”

  “You ain’t told Duval and his compañeros that part of it, then,” said Snyder.

  “No,” Collins admitted. “I saw no need to, until we reach the claim.”

  “Until they’re in too deep to back out,” said Puckett.

  “Backing out is the last thing I’d expect of them,” Collins said. “After all this is a rich claim. They certainly haven’t been misled, and that’s what matters.”

  The storm roared all night and was still going strong at dawn. The horses and mules had no shelter except the trees and brush that lined the hollow. The animals came near the wagons to receive their rations of grain, and then turning their backs to the storm, drifted away.

  “It’s gonna be hell, keepin’ the wolves away from them,” Dallas said, “if the varmints come prowlin’ around.”

  “We’ll have to group them as near the wagons as we can,” said Faro. “Be listenin’ for the first cry of a wolf.”

  But the first sound they heard above the howling of the wind was the distant nicker of a horse.

  “Maybe one of ours,” Collins said.

  “If it ain’t one of ours, it means somebody’s out there,” said Tarno. “Maybe trouble.”

  “Maybe not,” Faro said. “Listen for the horse to nicker again.”

  The horse did nicker a second time, more plaintive than before.

  “Nobody’s tryin’ to silence him,” said Shanghai. “Likely his rider ain’t able.”

  “He’s got to be to the west of us,” Faro said. “The wind’s from that direction. Tarno, will you go with me?”

  “I reckon,” said Tarno, “if it’s a stray horse, we can use him. If he has—or had—a rider, the poor bastard will need buryin’, when the ground thaws.”

  “One of us can go with you, if you want,” Collins said.

  “No,” said Faro. “Throw some more logs on the fire.”

  Faro and Tarno tied woolen scarves over their ears, thonged down their hats, donned sheepskin-lined coats and gloves, and stepped out into the storm. In places the snow had already drifted deep, and they had to fight their way through it. Faro looked back, and the new-fallen snow had already begun to cover their tracks. They couldn’t go much farther without the risk of becoming lost. Just when Faro was about to give up and turn back, the horse nickered again. The animal saw them through the swirling snow and reared. There was no saddle. Faro had brought a lead rope, and looped it around the animal’s neck. Only then did he see a human hand reaching—as though in mute appeal for help—from a snowbank. Tarno had seen it, too, and he seized the hand. He sought a pulse, found none, and shook his head. But Faro Duval didn’t give up. Taking the Indian’s other arm, he lifted him out of the snow, and with Tarno’s help, got him belly-down across the horse. Then they began the slow, seemingly hopeless task of getting him to their camp. The horse often stumbled, apparently from weakness and the cold. Finally, through swirling snow, they saw the dim outline of one of the wagons. Shanghai and Dallas saw them coming and came to meet them. Leading the horse as near the shelter as they could, they lifted off the Indian and placed him on a blanket near the fire.

  “Some of you grab a blanket and rub some life back into that horse,” Faro said, “and then give him a measure of grain.”

  “Here’s some whiskey,” said Collins. “If he’s still alive, it’ll bring him around.”

  “I found a pulse,” Tarno said, “but it’s almighty weak.”

  “You should have left the heathen out there,” said Durham contemptuously. “He’d have been one less we’ll have to shoot.”

  “This Indian’s no danger to anybody,” Faro said. “He has only a knife.”

  It was true. The Bowie, attached to a rawhide thong, dangled down the Indian’s back, beneath his buckskin shirt.

  “Get his moccasins off, so’s we can rub some life back into his feet,” said Shanghai.

  Faro removed the frozen moccasins, and what they saw sobered them all. The Indian’s left foot was horribly mutilated. It appeared to have once been broken at the ankle and had twisted inward.

  “My God,” Dallas said, “the poor varmint’s crippled, and under that buckskin, he’s all bones. He was half starved before the storm got him.”

  Chapter 12

  Coll
ins and Snyder got a quantity of whiskey down the half-frozen Indian, while Faro, Shanghai, and Dallas worked with his hands and feet. Tarno had a blanket and was rubbing down the horse.

  “His horse ain’t been eatin’ no better than he has,” Tarno said. “He’s so weak he can barely stand.”

  “There’s no room for the horse near the fire under the shelter,” said Isaac Puckett, “so why don’t we start up a fire outside that he can get to?”

  “Go ahead,” Collins said. “We seem to have plenty of wood.”

  Despite the wind-driven snow, they soon had a roaring fire going, and the horse did not have to be led to it. Moreover, some of the other horses and mules came to it, enjoying the warmth.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tarno, “we’ve started somethin’. Now we got another fire to watch.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Faro said. “This snow shows no signs of blowing itself out, and we may end up shooting wolves to protect our livestock. The fire will be a help.”

  “The Indian’s pulse is stronger,” said Shanghai. “When he’s slept off the whiskey and gets a bite of grub, he’ll be all right.”

  “Huh,” Durham scoffed, “what the hell good is a crippled Indian? For that matter, what good is an Indian with two good feet?”

  “He ain’t near as crippled as you are, Durham,” said Tarno. “Just in a different way.”

  “He may not be a Ute,” Shanghai said. “He may have been banished from his tribe. Some tribes do that, when their people become old and infirm, or disabled.”

  “How cruel,” said Mamie McCutcheon. “The old and the crippled are less able to take care of themselves. This poor fellow’s just skin and bones.”

  Durham laughed. “He’s a man, Mamie, and the part that’ll interest you is probably in good order. Why don’t you adopt him?”

  The gambler was standing directly behind Mamie, and it was the wrong thing to have said. In a swift move that endeared her to them all, she turned and planted her right fist in Durham’s face. When he stumbled backward and sat down in one of the fires, nobody lifted a hand. Instead, there was laughter and shouting as Durham sprang to his feet with the seat of his trousers and the tail of his coat afire. Throwing himself into a snowbank, he wallowed around until the fire was out. He lay there wiping his smashed, bleeding nose on the sleeve of his coat, glaring at them all in undisguised hatred.

  “By God,” said Withers in awe, “the ride from Santa Fe was worth that.”

  “It was,” Kritzer agreed. “Ma’am, you’ve just earned my undying admiration.”

  “Thank you,” said Mamie modestly. “Maybe I ain’t always what I should be, but I’ll never mistreat the old, the crippled, or the hungry, Indian or not.”

  “Amen,” Felix Blackburn said. “What ye do unto the least of mine, ye have done unto me.”

  The most unlearned among them recognized the scripture, and Durham wisely kept his mouth shut. He got to his feet and went to the farthest wagon, where his saddlebags were. There he began rummaging for clothing to replace that which had been damaged.

  * * *

  “Tarnation,” Shanghai said, “only way I know it’s another day is that my gut’s howlin’ for breakfast. It’s snowin’ just as hard as ever.”

  “Yes,” said Faro, “and I look for us to have a wolf problem before the end of the day, even if the snow lets up.”

  “The Indian’s awake,” Puckett said.

  “Tarno,” said Faro, “you’re half-Comanche. See if you can understand him, and maybe get him to understand you.”

  “The Spanish once owned this country,” Tarno said. “If he knows any Spanish, we can talk.”

  “Nombre?” said Tarno, kneeling beside the Indian.

  “Oso Espiritu,” the Indian replied.

  The Indian spoke Spanish fluently. Faro and some of the others understood some of the conversation, and it ended only when Felix Blackburn brought a tin cup of coffee and a tin plate of food. The Indian accepted the offering gratefully. Tarno then began to tell them in some detail what he had learned.

  “He’s a Paiute,” said Tarno, “and Paiute country is somewhere far to the west. He’s been driven from his tribe to die. His foot was mangled in a fight with a grizzly, and the bear escaped. A superstitious medicine man convinced the tribe that our Indian’s soul had been stolen by the bear, so they named him Bear Spirit and cast him out.”

  “My God,” Dallas said, “what are we gonna do with him? He can’t wander through these mountains alone, with a twisted foot and only a knife.”

  “If he don’t starve,” said Shanghai, “the Utes will kill him. It’s surprising they haven’t already.”

  “I don’t know what’s to become of him,” Collins said, “but he’s human, and I won’t see him left to starve or be murdered. He has a horse. He can go with us. Tell him that, Tarno.”

  “Good decision, Collins,” said Faro.

  Tarno conveyed the message to the Paiute, and he put down his tin plate. When he spoke, it was loud enough for them all to hear. “Gracias. Muchas gracias.”

  Felix Blackburn refilled the tin cup with coffee and the tin plate with more food, and the hungry Indian accepted it gratefully. Despite the continuing storm, everybody seemed cheered by the decision to help the homeless Paiute. Durham looked upon them all with disfavor, but nobody seemed to care what he thought. The storm raged on, and before the end of the day, there was bone-chilling evidence that Faro’s prediction was about to come to pass. Somewhere to the west, borne on the wind, came the mournful cry of a wolf, and on the heels of it, like an eerie echo, there was a distant answer.

  “They’re coming,” Faro said. “Throw some more logs on that outside fire. I’m going to start another, and we’ll try to keep our livestock between them.”

  “Lord, yes,” said Tarno. “It’ll be hard as hell to see ’em in this blowing snow. We’ll need the light from the fire, so they can’t get right on top of us.”

  Quickly the second fire was started, with enough space between the two for the gathering of the horses and mules. The animals needed no urging, for the crackling flames were saving beacons in an ominous world of swirling white. With the line of wagons and their protective canvas at their backs, and with armed men at both flanks, the attacking wolves had to come at them head-on.

  “They’ve stopped howling,” Collins said hopefully.

  “When you don’t hear the varmints, you’ll soon be seein’ ’em,” said Dallas.

  The first attacking wolves took the last approach any of them had expected. There was the sound of ripping canvas as two of the brutes sprang to the top of one of the wagons. Three Winchesters roared, sending the dead wolves over and away from the wagon. But it seemed almost like a diversion, for more than a dozen wolves charged the camp head-on. Horses and mules spooked, and in crowding closer, spoiled the aim of many of the defenders. A horse reared, a hoof striking Faro’s shoulder with such force that he was slammed against the side of the wagon. Dazed as he was, he wasn’t ready for the wolf. It sprang, driving slashing front claws into Faro’s shoulders. Arms numb, he tried to reach his Colt, but could not. Lowering his head to protect his throat, he went limp. He had to get on the ground so that one of his comrades could shoot the beast. The scene was total chaos as horses and mules screamed, wolves snarled, and the roar of Winchesters became a continuous roar of thunder.

  As Faro went down, expecting at any moment to feel the wolf’s fangs tear into his throat, a miracle took place. The recently rescued Paiute had been under the wagon, and he came out with a cry as chilling as that of the wolves themselves. With his left arm the Indian got a choke hold around the wolf’s massive neck. In his right hand was his Bowie knife, and he began driving it repeatedly into any part of the wolf he could reach. Seeming to forget Faro, the wolf turned his head, snapping and snarling at this new threat. Faro rolled away, getting his hands on his Winchester. The firing had all but ceased. The entire front of Faro’s shirt was bloody as he staggered to his feet.


  “My God!” Shanghai shouted.

  “Help the Indian,” Faro said.

  But even as he spoke, there was only an ominous silence from beneath the wagon, and his fears quickly became reality.

  “The Paiute’s dead,” said Tarno. “That big bastard of a wolf got to his throat. Looks like he killed the varmint with the last of his strength before he died.”

  “Damned strange,” Dallas said. “We lost only one horse, and it belonged to the Paiute.”

  “He was just a homeless Indian and an outlaw,” said Faro, “but as a man he stood nine feet tall. But for him, I’d be dead. Who else was hurt?”

  “Felix and Withers,” said Collins, “but they’ll heal. Some of the horses and mules need doctoring, too.”

  “Some of you tend to Felix and Withers, some of you to the livestock, and the rest keep watch in case the wolves return,” Faro said.

  “Out of that shirt, or what’s left of it. You’ve been clawed worse than Felix or Withers,” said Mamie McCutcheon.

  Faro needed help getting the shirt off. His clawed arm and shoulders already had begun to stiffen.

  “For the time being,” Collins said, “I think we’ll wrap the Indian in some blankets.”

  “Do that,” said Faro.

  Blackburn and Withers had already been stretched out on blankets. Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon had water boiling on two of the fires, and Levi Collins had brought the medicine chest, along with several bottles of whiskey.

  “Go ahead and join them,” Mamie said, spreading a third blanket.

  Faro did so, watching Kritzer, Snyder, Dallas, Tarno, and Shanghai rope the dead wolves and drag them away into the darkness. The horses and mules still huddled close to the fires, terrified at the wolf scent and the smell of blood.

  “How many of the gray devils?” Faro asked.

  “Eighteen dead, including the one the Indian knifed,” said Collins. “My God, that took courage.”