Devil's Canyon (10 page)

“It's the God's truth,” Kritzer said. “The Comanches are treacherous as hell, but they can't hold a candle to the Utes for pure cussedness. Once was, they'd sell their captives into slavery. Now I hear they'll burn you at the stake, just to hear you scream.”

“It's enough to give a man the creeps,” said Withers, “knowin' they're up here somewhere, never knowin' when they'll strike.”

“My God,” Peeler said, “if they're already striking, what'll they be like, as we ride on deeper into their stompin' ground?”

Slade laughed. “Anybody that's gettin' cold feet, feel free to just ride on back to Santa Fe. But keep in mind, them Utes is somewhere behind us. You could end up fightin' 'em all by your lonesome.”

“Great God Almighty,” Kritzer groaned, “them that's behind us ain't the problem.”

The four outlaws reined up, speechless. On the rise ahead of them a dozen mounted Indians had appeared. Behind them, an equal number waited.

“They got rifles, by God,” said Hindes, “and if my
eyes ain't failin' me, the varmint with that bunch up ahead is a white man.”

“If we're aimin' to make a move,” Withers said, “now's the time.”

“No,” said Slade. “They're armed with rifles, and we're within range. We'll wait and see what they have in mind.”

The white man rode to meet them, and they could only stare, for his face had been horribly mutilated. His right ear was missing, he wore a patch over his left eye, and a long, hideous scar ran from just above his good eye to the corner of his mouth. His lips had drawn downward into a perpetual leer. There were other scars on his face and neck, and they all contributed to his overall terrible appearance. As in the days of old Mexico, across his chest were crossed bandoliers of shells. Two Colts rode in a
buscadera
rig, and under his arm was a Winchester. He laughed, and then he spoke.

“Feast your eyes,
amigos
. Have you ever seen a man so ugly? My Ute
compañeros
call me Perro Cara. That's Dog Face, in English.”

“I won't say we're pleased to meet you,” said Slade, “with them Utes behind you. I'd like to know why you're stoppin' us. What do you want?”

“The Utes don't care a damn why you're here,” Dog Face said. “They'd as soon kill you and be done with it. Me, I'm different. Convince me there's a reason why any of you should go on livin'. Make it worth my while, and I'll speak up for you.”

“We stuck up a bank in Tucumcari,” said Slade,
“and a man was killed. We're on the run. Is that reason enough for you?”

“No,” Dog Face said. “You varmints has been pussyfootin' around them wagons ever since they left Santa Fe. You could of already ambushed 'em and took their freight, if you had that in mind. Now what are you
really
after?”

“Why the hell should I tell you
anything
?” said Slade. “You'd root us out, and take it all for yourself.”

“Then I reckon you'll just have to take your chances,” Dog Face said ominously. “If you don't speak up
pronto
, I'll have the lot of you shot out of your saddles.”

“Damn it,” said Slade, “for now, you win.”

Carefully, from his shirt pocket, he removed the small chunk of gold-laced ore that Durham had taken from Levi Collins. He tossed it to Dog Face, and he held it close to his good eye. He whistled long and low, and his free hand had dropped to the butt of one of his Colts. Slade and his companions swallowed hard, expecting the worst. Suddenly Dog Face laughed, and then he spoke.

“I reckon I'll let you live. For a while, anyhow. I got to warn you, though. These Utes is distrustful of whites. If they catch you tryin' to sneak off agin my wishes, they'll kill you. Now all of you ride on ahead of me, and don't even think about pullin' a gun. I can give any man of you a start, and still kill you.”

When all the Utes came together, Slade and his companions swallowed hard, for there were more than two dozen. But that wasn't the worst of it. When they eventually reached the camp in a distant canyon, there
were more Indians, as well as two more renegades of the same stripe as Dog Face.

“My God,” Hindes groaned, “there must be fifty of 'em.”

Slade and his men reined up, dismounting when given the order.

“Now,” said Dog Face, “tell us your names.”

Slade spoke first, and the others followed.

“My
amigos
is Sangre and Hueso,” Dog Face said, “an' don't let their friendly faces throw you. They'd as soon slit your throats or gut-shoot you as look at you. But stacked up to these Utes, them an' me is the best friends you got. Keep that in mind.”

Sangre and Hueso said nothing, but their evil faces spoke volumes. Sangre had little pig eyes, not a hair on his head or face, and without his boots, wouldn't have stood even five feet tall. But he made up in girth what he lacked in height, and he carried two Colts in a
buscadera
rig. The butt of a third revolver and the haft of a Bowie were barely visible above his wide belt. Hueso was all the name implied, his bones being the most prominent parts of his anatomy. He was gangling, standing more than a foot taller than Sangre, and he had the look of an albino. He might have been skinned, rendered, and his hide stretched back over his bones. On his right hip was a butt-forward, thonged-down Colt, and on his left, a sawed-off shotgun. Every Ute was armed with at least a Winchester, while some of them had revolvers shoved under the waistbands of their buckskins. They were truly a formidable bunch, and Dog Face laughed.

“We heard shootin' a while back,” Slade said. “Did you and this bunch of Utes attack them wagons?”

“No,” said Dog Face. “We can take the wagons anytime. Like I told you, I knew all that grub an' supplies was bein' freighted in for some reason, an' now I know what that reason is. I reckon we'll just do what you
hombres
was doin'. We'll foller along, until we know where them wagons is headed. The grub an' goods will satisfy the Utes, leavin' the gold for Sangre, Hueso, an' me.”

“Gold?” Sangre and Hueso shouted in a single voice.

“Yeah, gold,” said Dog Face. “I was gettin' around to tellin' you.”

He tossed the hunk of gold-laced ore, and Hueso caught it in a bony hand. It took but a moment for the greedy pair to comprehend. Their hands on the butts of their guns, they turned hard eyes on Slade and his companions.

“We don't know where it is,” Slade shouted.

“Back off,” said Dog Face. “He ain't lyin'.”

“If we're follerin' the wagons to the gold,” Sangre gritted, “what'n hell good is these varmints?”

“Yeah,” said Hueso, we ain't splittin' with them.”

“I'll decide who we split with, an' who we don't,” Dog Face said. “I broke both of you bastards out of a California jail, because I owed you, but by God, I don't owe you no more.”

It seemed Slade and his companions might have a small advantage, and Kritzer spoke.

“Why can't we throw in with you? The law's after us, and we got nowhere to go.”

“I'll study on it,” Dog Face said.

“While you're studyin',” said Sangre, “study on this bunch double-crossin' you when the time's right.”

“I aim to,” Dog Face said, “an' since you brung it up, don't you and Hueso go gettin' ideas. I been double-crossed before, but the bastards ain't around to brag on it.”

The unsavory duo glared at Dog Face, hatred in their eyes, and Slade laughed. There was no honor among thieves, and they all knew it, but Dog Face was no fool. Playing on the obvious hostility between his own companions and Slade's outfit, either faction would find it difficult to double-cross or shoot him in the back. The fact that Slade and his men had not been relieved of their weapons made the situation perfectly clear to Sangre and Hueso.

“Now that we understand one another,” said Slade, his eyes on Dog Face, “how is it that you got some of these Utes with you, but not the others?”

“There's different factions of 'em within these mountains,” Dog Face replied. “I took me a squaw within this bunch, and I led the men over Cajon pass, into California. As you can see, the
Californios
provided us with fine horses, weapons, and ammunition. The Utes ain't forgot, an' that's somethin' that can't always be said of a white man.”

As he spoke, his eyes were on Sangre and Hueso. From their expressions, it appeared his suspicions of the pair were well-founded.

“If you don't get along with all the Utes,” said Hindes, “what's to stop all the others from jumpin' in
ahead of us, killin' the teamsters, and takin' the wagons?”

“They ain't got the firepower,” Dog Face said. “Winchesters cut 'em down before they git within range with bows and arrows. That bunch that attacked the wagons a while ago, half of 'em died, without once drawin' blood.”

The Utes had gone about their business, paying no attention to Slade and his men. It was encouragement enough for the new arrivals, and they set about unsaddling.

“We got some grub,” Slade said, “but not enough to make much difference, with all these
hombres
.”

“We're obliged,” said Dog Face, “but it won't matter. It's summer, and there's plenty of game in these mountains. Come winter, we'll drift west, toward the Great Basin.”

There was a stream along the floor of the canyon, with the western rim overhanging enough to provide shelter. Slade and his companions released their horses and dragged their saddles beneath the rim. There being little else to do, the outlaws stretched out, heads on their saddles, and lighted quirlys.

“A fine damn mess,” said Hindes sourly. “Now what'll we do?”

“We'll keep our mouths shut,” Slade replied. “Especially you. Spoutin' off could get us all shot dead.”

“There's worse things than throwin' in with this bunch,” said Withers. “At least, we ain't likely to be bushwhacked by Indians.”

“Hell, we're surrounded by 'em,” Peeler said. “Let
somethin' happen to this ugly varmint, Perro Cara, and we're dead as last summer's cornstalks.”

“That's why we're gonna do whatever it takes to keep him alive,” said Slade. “At least for a while. We're going to make ourselves useful to him.”

Hindes laughed. “The mark of an honest man. Never back-shoot or double-cross a gent, as long as he's useful.”

Somehow it rubbed Slade the wrong way, and with his hand near the butt of his Colt, he spoke.

“Hindes, you open your mouth one more time, and I'll kill you.”

*   *   *

Despite the fact the first Indian attack had come from along the back trail, Faro didn't give up scouting ahead. This time, rather than scouting only as far as he believed the wagons could travel in a day, he rode much farther. While there was some personal risk, he wanted to see just how far ahead the outlaws were. He reined up quickly, for suddenly there were tracks of a dozen unshod horses. The riders had advanced until they had come together with other riders of unshod horses, and the lot of them had traveled west. Faro followed cautiously, and only when the riders were strung out enough could he again see tracks of shod horses.
Five
shod horses! He rode a little farther, just to be sure his eyes hadn't deceived him, but the tracks were there. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to meet the wagons. Seeing him coming, they reined up to rest the teams and climbed down from their wagon boxes.

“There's trouble ahead,” said Faro. “These
hombres
I've been trailin' rode off with Indians. Two dozen or
more, if I'm any judge. One of the bunch is ridin' a shod horse.”

“Could be a white renegade,” Dallas Weaver said.

“That's what I suspect,” said Faro.

“There was no sign of any conflict, then, when these four men met the Indians,” Levi Collins said.

“None that I could see,” said Faro, “and that's puzzling. Two bunches of Utes caught these four
hombres
between a rock and a hard place, but there was no sign of a fight. It seems they all rode away together.”

“Pretty mean odds, four men against that many Indians,” Tarno said. “I reckon they done the smart thing.”

“I ain't too sure of that,” said Shanghai. “Hell, I'd as soon go down shootin' as to be rode off to an Indian camp and burnt at the stake.”

“There's one factor we're not considering,” Faro said. “The rider of that fifth shod horse may be a renegade white. If he is, it could account for those four being taken alive.”

“Yes,” said Collins, “and he may have taken them alive, seeking to learn why they've been dogging us. If all this was Indian related, I can't believe they wouldn't just come after us with a large enough force to kill us all and take the wagons.”

“That's more the Indian way,” Faro agreed, “so you may be right. There may be a white renegade calling the shots, but what can the four men he captured tell him about us and our destination?”

“From what I know,” said Odessa McCutcheon, “one of them four varmints likely took somethin' from Mr. Collins that led 'em to suspect where you folks is
goin', and your reasons. Don't you reckon them four would swap that information for their lives, if they had any choice?”

“By God, she's right,” Dallas said. “There's nothin' worse than a bunch of Indians led by white outlaws.”

“But we've already been attacked by Indians,” said Mamie McCutcheon, “and they all came after us along the back trail.”

“All Indians won't necessarily be part of this renegade bunch,” Faro said. “That means we're subject to being attacked by God knows how many different bands.”

Hal Durham listened in dismay, his pitiful plans to double-cross Slade's bunch crumbling before his eyes. Even now, Slade and his companions might be dead, and while Durham didn't care a damn for them, it complicated things for him. Strong on his mind was the hunk of gold ore he had given Slade. Men had killed for less than the promise within that piece of rock, and the killers would be somewhere ahead. Durham swallowed hard.