Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  “Maybe more than you realize,” Faro replied. “He could have stayed under the wagon until one of you shot the wolf.”

  “But any one of us would have been too late to save you,” said Collins.

  “Yes,” Faro said, “It was his life or mine, and he made the choice. It’s enough to humble a man. He’d known me only a few hours.”

  “No matter,” Felix Blackburn said. “A simple act of kindness taking only a few minutes can make an impression that lasts a lifetime.”

  “It just did,” said Withers, who had been listening.

  “Strange as it may sound,” Collins said, “I believe this crippled Paiute saw the fight with the wolf as a means of redeeming himself, to prove his courage.”

  “It’s about the only thing that makes any sense,” said Faro. “Losing an impossible fight with a grizzly cost him the use of a foot and the respect of his tribe. That’s enough to destroy an Indian, and when life drags a man down low enough, he’s likely to start thinking of death with honor. I lost a friend on the battlefield at Gettysburg. He had taken a bad one in the spine and had been paralyzed from the waist down. He wouldn’t allow himself to be moved, except to leave him with his back to a tree. When the rest of us were driven back, he kept firing until the enemy rushed his position.”

  “God,” said Odessa McCutcheon, “it must have been terrible, leaving him there.”

  “It was,” Faro said. “He was my brother.”

  “The water’s boiling, Odessa,” said Mamie. “Come help me.”

  By the time the men who had dragged away the dead wolves returned, the roar of the storm had subsided. The snow was only an occasional windblown dusting, and incredibly, a few stars twinkled timidly in the western sky.

  “This couldn’t come at a better time,” said Dallas. “There’s snow drifts deep enough to swallow a man on a horse.”

  “Yeah,” Shanghai agreed, “and it gets some complicated when you got a skittish horse on one end of the rope and a pair of dead wolves on the other.”

  “Did you see any more wolves?” Collins asked.

  “No sign of any,” said Tarno. “I reckon we accounted for enough of the varmints to make an impression on the others. How bad are the wounded?”

  “Faro’s wounds are the worst,” Collins said. “Could be a week before we can move him.”

  “Three days,” said a groggy Faro Duval.

  “Won’t matter if it takes a week,” said Dallas. “When this snow melts, there’ll be mud like you’ve never seen.”

  “That’s something we can’t change,” Collins said. “We’ll consider the wounded first and then the terrain ahead. Has anybody seen Durham?”

  As though in answer to the inquiry there came a prolonged, rattling snore from beneath one of the wagons.

  “Damn,” said Kritzer in disgust. “The lobos should of got him instead of the Indian.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Tarno said. “Maybe next time it can be arranged.”

  “Come daylight,” said Collins, “we’ll roust him and put him to chopping wood. Unless the sun comes out and it gets warm in a hurry, we’ll be snaking in more logs. That is, if we can find them.”

  “Finding them won’t be a problem,” Isaac Puckett said, “but getting to them will be.”

  “He’s right about that,” said Shanghai. “We’d best get an early start, ’cause we’ll have to break trail for the horses. It’ll be an all-day job.”

  “You men know what to do,” Collins replied. “Get started after breakfast. I’ll break out some axes so Durham and me can begin chopping wood.”

  Collins noted with a sigh of relief that as soon as the McCutcheons had doctored and bandaged the wounded men, they had then turned their attention to preparing breakfast. They were needed, especially with Felix Blackburn among the wounded. He had noticed Mamie taking an interest in Felix, while he seemed interested but wary. He half hoped Felix would respond, drawing Mamie’s attention away from the no-account gambler. Now if there was just somebody to occupy Odessa’s time.

  * * *

  While the renegade camp hadn’t been visited by marauding wolves, it hadn’t fared well during the storm. There had been no windbreaks except the few leafless trees. The Utes—now twenty-five in number—had taken refuge in a thicket where they kept their own fires and cooked their own meals. The bitter cold had kept Sangre, Hueso, and Slade scrambling for enough wood to feed their own fires for warmth. Sangre and Hueso had complained constantly. Slade had kept his silence.

  “Look at them damn Utes,” Hueso growled. “There they set, with plenty of firewood, eatin’ our grub.”

  “Yeah,” said Sangre. “And they’re starin’ at us like we was calves trapped in a bog hole.”

  Dog Face laughed. “You varmints do beat all. You hate them Utes, and then you ain’t got the brains to understand why they’re just itchin’ to cut your gizzards out. You want more firewood, saddle your horse an’ drag some up.”

  “I ain’t seen you draggin’ none up,” Hueso snapped.

  “You won’t neither,” said Dog Face. “It’s me that’s keepin’ you alive in Ute country. Let somethin’ happen to me and you won’t be needin’ firewood. It’ll be plenty warm in hell.”

  “It’s plenty warm in California,” Sangre said.

  “Go on,” said Dog Face, “if you’re comfortable with a rope around your scrawny neck.”

  Slade laughed, enjoying the expressions of hate and frustration on the faces of these troublesome renegades.

  “What’n hell are you laughin’ at?” Sangre roared.

  “You and the turkey buzzard,” said Slade. “The pair of you are funnier than a team of dancing bears.”

  Dog Face laughed. Sangre lunged at Slade, but Slade was expecting that. He stepped aside and slammed a murderous right into Sangre’s beefy face. The big man went head over heels into a snowdrift. Spitting blood and curses, he came up clawing for his Colt, only to find Slade had him covered.

  “Back off, Slade,” Dog Face said. “This ain’t no time for them Utes to see us fightin’ amongst ourselves. I dunno how much longer I can keep ’em on a tight rein, if them cussed wagons don’t come on.”

  “I could ride back and check on ’em,” said Slade.

  “Too soon,” Dog Face replied. “Them wagons won’t be movin’ till the snow melts and some of the mud dries up. Besides, I may have need of you here.”

  The threat wasn’t lost on Sangre and Hueso, for not once during their stormy alliance with Dog Face had the renegade spoken of needing them. Their hatred of Slade fed on itself and continued to grow.

  * * *

  “How long have I slept?” asked Faro.

  “Near eighteen hours,” said Odessa McCutcheon. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I been chewed up and spit out,” Faro said. “I need maybe a gallon of water to rid myself of the whiskey taste.”

  “We saved you some supper,” said Mamie.

  “Bring that, too,” Faro said.

  There was snoring, and looking around, he found Blackburn and Withers sleeping peacefully. In the light from the fire, sweat glistened on their faces, evidence their fevers had broken. Seeing Faro was awake, Collins knelt beside him.

  “We had sun for most of the day,” said Collins. “If we’re as fortunate tomorrow, the snow will be gone.”

  “And there’ll be an equal amount of mud to replace it,” Faro said.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Collins, “but those of you who were wounded can use a couple more days to heal, and since we can’t move the wagons anyway, it’s not costing us any time.”

  Mamie brought Faro his supper and while he was eating, Dallas joined him.

  “While we’re layin’ over,” Dallas said, “we ought to grease the wheel hubs and axles of all the wagons. Shanghai, Tarno, and me can do it tomorrow.”

  “Do it,” Faro said. “And we’ll be that much ahead.”

  “The ground should be thawed enough to bury the Indian, too.”
<
br />   “Bueno,” Faro said. “He’s more than earned the right to a decent burial.”

  * * *

  Three days later, the wagons again rumbled west. Faro sat on the high box of the lead wagon, allowing Collins to scout ahead. The weather had turned unseasonably warm, and thanks to melted snow at higher elevations, Collins had no trouble finding abundant water with some decent graze. Sundown was less than an hour away when the camp came to attention. A rider approached from the west.

  “Rein up,” Collins ordered, “and identify yourself.”

  “Luke Tindall,” the rider shouted.

  “Dismount and come on,” said Collins.

  Tindall dismounted, and as he drew near, the most striking thing about him was the lawman’s star pinned to his shirt. He carried two Colts and the buscadera rig rode low on his hips, seeming too large. While he had an admirable manner about him, Faro didn’t like him, for something didn’t ring true. He addressed himself to Collins, ignoring the rest of them.

  “Horse is lame,” Tindall said. “I was hopin’ for a swap. Any chance?”

  “Sorry, no,” said Collins. “There’s another camp west of here. Did you stop there?”

  “Naw,” Tindall replied. “Two or three whites and the rest was Indians. I got o use for a white man that hunkers down with heathen.”

  “Tindall,” said Faro, “you’re a good four hundred miles from Santa Fe, and even farther from any settlements to the west. What possible business could a lawman have in these mountains where there’s mostly hostile Indians?”

  “Friend,” Tindall said coldly, “you tend to get a mite personal. I don’t see the need for you knowin’ my business.”

  “Well, I do,” said Levi Collins. “We don’t know that you won’t return after dark and try to take one of our horses.”

  It was an insult—obvious and intentional—that no man on the frontier could overlook. Tindall eased his hands close to the butts of his Colts.

  “Don’t even think of it, pilgrim,” Tarno said.

  “Damn it,” Tindall growled, dropping his hands to his side. “What kind of lawman do you think I am?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” said Collins.

  “All right,” Tindall growled, “if you got to know, I’m trailin’ a bank robber name of Harlan Taylor. Stuck up a bank in the Bay Area an’ escaped with more’n twenty-five thousand.”

  “How do you know Taylor came this way?” Collins asked.

  “I trailed him till I had to hole up from the storm,” said Tindall. “He’s wanted all over California, so he couldn’t stay there.”

  “An uncommon long ways to trail a man,” Faro said. “You want him that bad?”

  “Bad enough to chase him clean to Santa Fe,” said Tindall. “Since you can’t spare me a fresh horse, am I welcome to stay the night? My cayuse might be better, come mornin’.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” Collins replied.

  After supper, Tindall sat with his back to a wagon wheel, shuffling a deck of cards. Except for Hal Durham, he was ignored, but he was quick to notice Durham’s interest.

  “Care for a few hands?” Tindall asked.

  “Maybe,” said Durham, “but I never play for fun. You got money?”

  “Enough,” Tindall said.

  Spreading a blanket for money and cards, they settled down near one of the fires. The rest of the camp—even the McCutcheons—shied away.

  “That hombre’s unlike any lawman I’ve ever seen,” said Faro.

  “If you mean the gambling, that’s the least offensive thing about him,” Dallas said. “Wild Bill never gets so busy bein’ a lawman that he’d turn his back on a poker game.”

  “Wild Bill don’t wear a gun belt that’s too big for him, with another man’s initials cut into the leather,” said Faro.

  “Faro’s right,” said Tarno. “You got to look close, but there’s an H.T. cut into the back of that gun belt. Flesh that out some, and get Harlan Taylor, not Luke Tindall.”

  “My God,” Collins said. “We’ve taken in a thief and a murderer.”

  “That’s how it stacks up to me,” said Faro, “but there’s a matter of proof. Or the lack of it.”

  “He ain’t let them saddlebags out of his sight since he showed up,” Shanghai observed.

  “Still no evidence,” said Faro.

  “If your suspicions are correct,” Collins said, “then he shouldn’t go unpunished. What are we to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Faro, “unless he tips his hand in some way.”

  But Durham and Tindall had been playing less than an hour when trouble erupted. Durham had won consistently. Suddenly Tindall got to his feet and backed away.

  “You been cheatin’,” Tindall said.

  Durham laughed. “We’re using your cards.”

  “No matter,” said Tindall. “I’m declarin’ this game finished and takin’ back my money.”

  “The game is finished,” Durham said, “but the money stays.”

  Dallas and Tarno had their hands near their Colts, but Faro shook his head. Durham had gotten himself in a bad situation, and now he must play out his hand. And he did. Tindall drew and fired first, but Durham was swift as a striking rattler. He threw himself to the side, and belly-down, shot Tindall twice. Tindall stumbled backward, fell and lay still. Durham still held the Colt in his fist, a killing fury in his eyes.

  “Put away the gun, Durham,” Faro said.

  “He drew first,” said the gambler defensively.

  “I’m not denying that,” Faro said. “It’s all that’s saving your worthless neck from a rope.”

  All eyes turned to the blanket where the money and cards lay. There was less than a hundred dollars, and oblivious to them all, Durham was gathering it up.

  “Shanghai,” said Faro, “you and Tarno wrap Tindall in a blanket. We’ll bury him in the morning.”

  “I suppose there’s no reason why we can’t have a look in Tindall’s saddlebags,” Collins said. “It might confirm our suspicions.”

  “No reason,” said Faro. “Go ahead.”

  “No,” Durham shouted. “I’m claiming the saddlebags and whatever’s in them.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Faro coldly. “Killing a man doesn’t entitle you to everything he has. Especially when it may not be his. Fetch the saddlebags, Collins.”

  The saddlebags were opened and the contents dumped on a blanket. There were bundles of paper currency in large bills. Some of them were still wrapped in paper bands bearing the name of a California bank.

  “There must be twenty-five thousand and more,” Collins said.

  “Splittin’ it even, that’s more than two thousand apiece,” said Durham. “I’m entitled to my cut.”

  “You’re entitled to nothing,” Faro replied. “This money belongs to a California bank, and I aim to see they get it back, once we return to Santa Fe.”

  Durham said no more. Taking a pair of his blankets, he rolled in them and was soon asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Tindall was buried at first light, before breakfast.

  “We didn’t bury him anywhere near the Paiute,” Shanghai said, when he, Blackburn, Tarno, and Withers had finished the grisly task.

  “Bueno,” said Faro. “The Indian was worth a hundred of him.”

  Before the wagons again rolled west, Faro spent a few minutes with Levi Collins, discussing their position.

  “We’re less than a hundred miles from the Colorado River,” Collins said.

  “Do you know where it’s shallow enough to cross the wagons?”

  “There are plenty of shallows,” said Collins, “but where the Colorado passes through Utah, there are deep gorges where no wagon could ever cross.”

  “We may be forced to travel miles out of our way, then,” Faro said.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Collins. “The way we’re headed, we’ll reach the river at or near the place where we first forded it with pack mules.”

  �
��Then we’ll make camp there and ride the river in both directions until we find a place to cross the wagons. If worst comes to worst, we might have to take picks and shovels and create our own crossing,” Faro said.

  “Perhaps,” said Collins, “but don’t count on it. There are long stretches where the Colorado flows through deep canyons with stone rims clear to the water.”

  “We’ll cross it,” Faro said.

  * * *

  “The wagons are movin’ again,” Slade reported.

  “Bueno,” said Dog Face. “I think we’ll stay where we are and let them get ahead of us.”

  “They better not be goin’ beyond the Colorado,” Hueso said. “They’ll never get them wagons across.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ there but one deep gorge after another,” Sangre added.

  “Well, Slade,” said Dog Face, “ain’t you got your opinion?”

  “Yeah,” Slade replied. “Too many hombres have a weakness, and they expect to find the same weakness in others. Underestimating his opponents can get a man killed. If them wagons need to cross the Colorado, they’ll cross it.”

  The insult was directed at Sangre and Hueso, and they were very much aware of it. Dog Face laughed, and the uneasy alliance continued.

  The Colorado River. September 30, 1870.

  Slowly but surely, Felix Blackburn’s interest in Mamie McCutcheon grew. When Blackburn was on watch, Mamie didn’t sleep much.

  “What do you want out of life, Mamie?” Felix asked one night.

  “I don’t feel I have the right to expect much,” said Mamie.

  “Why not?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard how Odessa and me made fools of ourselves over a certain tinhorn gambler?” Mamie replied.

  “Some of it,” said Felix frankly. “Why don’t you tell me the rest?”

  “You’re sure you want to hear it?”

  “Yes,” Felix said.

  For most of an hour she talked while Blackburn listened. When she had finished, there was a long moment of silence. Mamie held her breath, fearing his response.

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” said Felix.

  “You quote scripture like a preacher,” Mamie said.

  “I spent two years in a Louisiana prison,” said Felix. “I spent it reading the Bible. I figured I had some catching up to do. So, you see, somewhere along the way, we’ve all played the fool, doing things we can’t be proud of.”