Sidewinders:#3: Cutthroat Canyon

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Thank you, Rosalinda,” Davidson said. “That looks very good.”

  “Sí, señor,” she murmured. “I will bring the rest of the food.”

  She retreated to the kitchen and came back with bowls of beans, potatoes, chili peppers, and tiny onions, as well as plates piled high with tortillas. Davidson made an expansive gesture and said, “Dig in, gentlemen.”

  Rosalinda moved past him, and in what seemed a natural extension of his gesture, Davidson’s hand reached out and rested for a moment on the curve of her hip.

  “We’ll want coffee and brandy, too,” he told her.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Davidson chuckled, squeezed her hip, and gave it a pat. It was a very possessive move, and Bo was willing to bet that none of the men around the table had missed it. Having Rosalinda serve the meal and then treating her that way served a dual purpose.

  It showed her off to the men—and at the same time let them know in no uncertain terms that Davidson regarded her as his own personal property.

  That rubbed Bo the wrong way, and he knew from the flicker of anger in Scratch’s eyes that his partner felt the same way. That was no way to treat a lady, and to the Texans’ way of thinking, all women were ladies unless and until they proved otherwise.

  Several of the mine foremen had come to the headquarters building for supper, joining Davidson and the men he had brought from El Paso around the table. Wallace was among them, and at Davidson’s urging he gave a brief accounting of the mine’s production over the past week or so.

  “You know we had quite a bit of ore on hand when you left here, Boss,” Wallace said. “It’s just grown since then. We really need to get it across the border.”

  Davidson nodded. “That’s my thinking exactly. First thing in the morning, have it loaded on the wagons.” He looked around the table at the newly hired guards. “Gentlemen, I hate to put you to work so soon after you got here, but I need to move that gold.”

  “You want us to turn right around and head back to El Paso with it?” Skinner asked.

  “Is that a problem, Mr. Skinner?” Davidson asked.

  Skinner shook his head. “Nope. Not as far as I’m concerned. You’re payin’ top wages, so you call the tune. Are you comin’ with us?”

  “No, I’ll be staying here.”

  “Then I reckon you need to put somebody in charge for the trip back up there.” Skinner bared his teeth in an ugly grin as he looked around the table. “I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t too good at takin’ orders.”

  The implication was clear to all of them. Skinner preferred giving orders to taking them. He wanted Davidson to put him in charge of the guards who would accompany the ore shipment to El Paso.

  Davidson looked around the table as well. “Do any of you men object to Mr. Skinner being in charge?”

  Scratch opened his mouth to say something, but Bo caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of his head. Scratch frowned, but he didn’t voice any complaints.

  Neither did any of the other men. Jackman and Tragg both muttered, “Nope,” and shook their heads. Hansen shrugged his broad shoulders. Lancaster said, “That’s fine by me,” and Douglas jerked his head in a curt nod of agreement with the Englishman. That left Bo and Scratch.

  “No objections from us,” Bo said, speaking for both of them.

  “You’ve definitely decided to take me up on my offer of employment?” Davidson asked.

  “We have,” Bo declared. “And we appreciate you being patient while we made up our minds.”

  Davidson smiled. “Good men are worth waiting for. I believe that with the eight of you looking out for my gold, I can finally stop worrying about getting it to El Paso safely.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jackman said, reaching for his whiskey.

  “That’ll be the last drink tonight,” Davidson said. “Since you’ll be riding again first thing in the morning, none of you need hangovers.”

  “What about the señoritas?” Tragg asked. “We ain’t had a chance to visit the cantina in that village, and you said they had some pretty gals there.”

  “Got at least one pretty one here,” Skinner murmured as his deep-set eyes glanced toward the kitchen where Rosalinda had gone.

  Bo saw Davidson’s mouth tighten. “I’m sorry, that’ll have to wait until you get back from this trip. But I’ll see to it that there’s a…bonus…waiting for each of you when you return.” The mine owner forced a smile onto his face. “I believe you’ll find that it’s worth the wait.”

  That decision didn’t set well with some of the men, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it other than grumble, and none of them wanted to get on Davidson’s bad side by doing too much of that. The meal continued, and after a few minutes Skinner said, “Figure we’ll split up into four bunches of two men each tomorrow and fan out around the ore wagons. Lancaster, you’re with me.”

  “All right,” Lancaster said.

  “Douglas and me will ride together,” Hansen said. The kid nodded his agreement. That left Jackman and Tragg, and Bo and Scratch, as the other two pairs. Everyone seemed satisfied with the arrangement. Skinner decided that he and Lancaster would ride about half a mile to the west of the wagons, with Jackman and Tragg in a similar position to the east. The other two pairs of riders would bring up the rear, several hundred yards apart from each other.

  Davidson said, “The bandits have always laid an ambush for the wagons when they struck before. I think that arrangement should work fine to counter any frontal attack.”

  “Unless they decide to hit from some other direction since they know you’ve got extra guards now,” Bo pointed out.

  “We can’t be sure they’re aware of that,” Davidson said. “The bunch that attacked us last night might not be the same ones who have held up the ore wagons in the past. There could be more than one gang of bandidos in these parts.”

  “Maybe,” Bo said with a shrug.

  “Anyway, no matter what direction the bandits attack from, with you men spread out around the wagons, there’ll be reinforcements galloping in to attack them from the rear or the flanks.”

  “And you’ve got genuine fighting men protecting the wagons this time,” Lancaster pointed out. “You strike me as a former military man, Mr. Davidson. Were you in the Army?”

  “I was,” Davidson replied with a smile. “I was a captain, in command of a company of infantry from Ohio during the War of Rebellion.”

  “You mean the War of Northern Aggression?” Scratch drawled.

  “The Civil War’s been over for nigh on to fifteen years,” Bo said. “Let’s not fight it all over again.”

  Davidson laughed. “Not at all. We’re all allies now, Bo. And I’m glad of it.” He turned back to Lancaster. “You served in Her Majesty’s Army?”

  Lancaster nodded and said, “I was a lancer in India.”

  Hansen spoke up. “I was in an infantry unit from Minnesota.” Jackman and Tragg chimed in as well, saying that they had belonged to a company of irregulars in Missouri.

  Guerrillas, that was what they meant, Bo thought. He wondered if they had ridden with Quantrill or Bloody Bill Anderson or some other guerrilla leader who was just an outlaw by another name.

  Davidson turned to Skinner as the reminiscing continued. “What about you, Mr. Skinner?”

  “I don’t see any sense in war,” the gunman snapped. “When I kill a man, it’s for cold, hard cash, not some idea that don’t mean a damn thing.”

  Davidson looked annoyed by Skinner’s comment, but he turned to Bo and Scratch and asked, “What about you two? I assume that since you’re Texans, you fought for the Confederacy?”

  Bo shook his head. “We steered clear of the ruckus as much as we could.”

  “Reckon we got our bellyful of fightin’ wars when Texas busted loose from Mexico and Santy Anny,” Scratch added.

  In truth, they had aided the Southern cause on a couple of occasions in the far western theater of war, helping out an old friend of t
heirs who was a member of the Confederate intelligence service. But being Texans, they had always considered themselves Westerners more than Southerners and had never actually donned the gray.

  The subject shifted back to preparations for the trip to El Paso the next morning. Each pair of men would carry their own supplies, and they wouldn’t rendezvous with the others, except in case of a bandit attack, until the wagons reached the border. They would make the return trip together, though. The bandidos wouldn’t have any reason to jump empty wagons.

  With everything settled, Davidson lifted his glass to finish off his whiskey. “To success, gentlemen,” he said. “The more gold we get through to El Paso, the richer we’ll all be.”

  “I’ll drink to bein’ rich,” Jackman said.

  “You’re the only one that’ll be rich,” Skinner told Davidson. “Hired guns never stay in one place long enough—or live long enough—for that to happen to them.”

  “Stick with me, Mr. Skinner, and you might be surprised,” Davidson said. “There’s untold wealth in Cutthroat Canyon.”

  After supper, the men turned in, most of them eager to get some sleep since they had to be riding again early the next morning. Skinner was adamant about not sharing a room with anyone, so Alfred gave him one of the extra rooms to himself and set up a cot in a storage room for Lancaster, who volunteered for the less luxurious accommodations.

  “Even so, it’s much better than our quarters were in Peshawar, you know,” the Englishman said.

  Davidson stayed in the dining room to talk to Alfred after the others had left. Bo motioned Scratch to go on and lingered in the hallway, just out of sight, where he could hear what they were saying. He didn’t like sneaking around and eavesdropping on folks, but he had a hunch that he needed to find out as much as he could about what was going on around here.

  “Send Rosalinda to my room as soon as she’s through cleaning up in here,” Davidson ordered, his tone brisk.

  “Yes, sir,” Alfred said. Bo thought he didn’t sound particularly happy about it either, but Davidson didn’t seem to notice.

  “The men will need a good breakfast in the morning,” Davidson went on, “since they’ll be riding all day. You’ll see to that, and preparing supplies for them to take with them?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And let Gomez know that we’ll need girls here for them when they get back four nights from now.”

  “Yes, sir. Any, ah, particular preferences that you know of?”

  Davidson chuckled. “No, I haven’t really explored that with the new men yet. I’m sure they’ll be satisfied with whatever Gomez can provide. If any of them want anything…special…we can deal with that later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Davidson yawned and said, “Good night, Alfred.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Bo heard Davidson’s footsteps retreating and Alfred moving around the room. Dishes clinked against each other a moment later. Bo ventured a glance around the corner, and saw that Rosalinda had reappeared from the kitchen and was cleaning off the table. Alfred helped her, and as he did so, he said in a quiet voice, “Señor Davidson wants you to come to his room when you’re through here, Rosalinda.”

  A scared look appeared on her face as she shook her head. “Alfred, no. Not again, por favor.”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice,” he told her, then added in a mutter that Bo barely heard, “Neither of us do.”

  For a second, Rosalinda looked like she was going to argue, but then she lowered her eyes to the floor again and nodded. “Sí, Alfred. I will do as I am told.”

  Bo waited where he was, just out of sight of those in the dining room, until Rosalinda was gone and Alfred was moving around the room blowing out the lamps. Then he stepped around the corner and cleared his throat.

  Alfred jumped a little in surprise as he turned around. “Oh, Mr. Creel,” he said. “I didn’t know you were still up. Can I do something for you, sir?”

  Bo had a good idea why Alfred had reacted so guiltily. He had heard the young man muttering under his breath again as he moved around the room, and Bo suspected that whatever Alfred had been saying, it wasn’t too complimentary to Porter Davidson.

  “No, I don’t need anything, son,” Bo said. “What do you need?”

  Alfred frowned in confusion. “I…I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Are you happy here, doing the things you have to do?”

  Alfred straightened his back. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir. My job is quite satisfactory.”

  “All right. If you say so.”

  Bo wasn’t convinced by the young man’s answer, but he could tell from the stiff look on Alfred’s face that he wasn’t going to get anything else. Alfred wouldn’t betray his boss. That sort of loyalty was usually an admirable quality.

  Bo wasn’t so sure that was the case here.

  But he let it go and said, “Good night, Alfred. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Mr. Creel.”

  Bo went to the room that had been assigned to him and Scratch, and found the silver-haired Texan smoking a quirly and peering out the window at the night.

  “Where have you been?” Scratch asked without turning around.

  “Oh, skulking around the dining room, eavesdropping on Davidson and Alfred.”

  Scratch chuckled. “I knew you had some kind of burr under your saddle. Things ain’t right around here, and if I can tell that, you sure as hell can.”

  “No, they’re not,” Bo agreed. “Davidson told Alfred to send that Rosalinda girl to his room after she got finished cleaning up after supper. Alfred didn’t like it either.”

  “He’s sweet on the gal his own self,” Scratch said.

  “That’s what it looks like to me. He won’t stand up to Davidson about it, though.”

  Scratch shrugged. “Davidson’s his boss. Just like he’s our boss now.” He finally turned away from the window. “You know it don’t bother me none to let you do the thinkin’ for us, Bo, but I ain’t sure I want to work for that hombre after all. I’m startin’ to think it’s him the Mexes are so scared of, not any bandidos.”

  “The same thought occurred to me,” Bo agreed with a nod. “But I’d like to find out exactly what’s going on around here, and I figure the best way to do that is if we’re working for Davidson.”

  “We got to turn around and go right back to El Paso,” Scratch pointed out.

  “Yes, but we’ll be coming back here, and after that, I expect it’ll be a while before another ore shipment is ready. That will give us some time to poke around.”

  “Where we maybe ain’t wanted, eh?” Scratch asked with a grin.

  “If we never stuck our noses in where they’re not wanted, we’d never find out anything interesting, now would we?”

  Scratch chuckled. “Reckon not.” He grew more serious. “Davidson ought to be ashamed of himself, messin’ around with a gal as young as Rosalinda. Ol’ Alfred’s a lot closer to her age, and seems like a nice young fella to boot. Maybe before we leave Cutthroat Canyon for good, we can do somethin’ about that.”

  “Yeah,” Bo agreed dryly. “Just a couple of frontier Cupids, that’s us.”

  “Speak for yourself, old-timer. I ain’t ready to start wearin’ no diaper again, and I sure as shootin’ don’t carry no bow and arrow! Say,” Scratch went on, “you reckon ol’ Cupid’s really a Comanch?”

  Bo didn’t have any idea how to answer that question, so he just went to bed instead.

  CHAPTER 9

  The men were up before dawn the next morning, getting ready to ride. As Bo led his saddled dun out of the barn into the corral, he saw three wagons lined up in front of the headquarters building, each with a six-mule team hitched to it. Men in sombreros and sandals and rough peasant garb were carrying crates out of the big log building and placing them in the wagons.

  There must be a strong room somewhere inside there that he hadn’t seen yet, Bo thought, where Davidso
n stored the ore under lock and key until he could ship it out.

  Leaving the horses in the corral, Bo and Scratch went to the headquarters building for breakfast. Alfred had outdone himself with piles of bacon and sausage, towering stacks of flapjacks, mounds of scrambled and fried eggs, thick juicy steaks, plates full of biscuits and bowls full of gravy, pitchers of molasses for the flapjacks, jugs of buttermilk, and several pots of strong black coffee.

  Skinner, Jackman, and Tragg were already at the table, eating enthusiastically. Jackman and Tragg gave friendly nods to Bo and Scratch as the Texans entered the dining room. Skinner didn’t glance up or acknowledge their presence. Bo and Scratch sat down, poured cups of coffee, and started filling their plates.

  “Ain’t seen that Rosalinda gal around this mornin’,” Tragg said.

  “I reckon Mr. Davidson plumb wore her out last night, more than likely,” Jackman added with a grin.

  Alfred was coming in the door from the kitchen as Jackman made his crude comment. He had another pot of coffee in his hand, and for a second Bo thought he was going to haul off and smash the pot down on Jackman’s head. Alfred controlled his emotions with a visible effort and placed the coffeepot on the table.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to Bo and Scratch. “You slept well, I trust?”

  “Just fine,” Scratch replied. “Where’s the boss man this mornin’?”

  Alfred shook his head. “I haven’t seen Mr. Davidson yet. I assume that he’s still asleep. Mr. Wallace is supervising the loading of the ore onto the wagons. He’ll be driving the lead wagon as well.”

  “Wallace knows where to take the ore when we get to El Paso?” Bo asked.

  “Yes, sir. He’s Mr. Davidson’s second in command and is familiar with all phases of the operation.”

  Douglas, Hansen, and Lancaster came in from saddling their horses and joined the others at the table. The kid was taciturn as usual, but Hansen and Lancaster were talkative. Soon, conversation and laughter filled the dining room as the men bantered back and forth.