Devil's Canyon (16 page)

“We must of come more than a hundred miles,” Isaac said. “If we can hold out for another night and another day, we should be halfway to Santa Fe.”

“From what I've heard of these Utes,” said Felix, “in the days when they took white captives to be sold as slaves, they often raided Santa Fe. With our luck, they'll dog us to within sight of the town.”

“We can't afford to give up on Levi,” Josh said. “If he's comin' back at all, he's got to be on the way.”

They went on, walking and leading their horses, often forced to take long detours to avoid dangerous drop-offs. An hour before dawn, they rested.

“I think it's time we rode half a dozen miles south,” said Felix. “If there's an ambush somewhere ahead, we'd best ride around it, if we can.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said, “and once they discover what we've done, they'll be after us with intentions of riding us down.”

“I'm counting on that,” said Felix. “We'll keep an eye on our back trail, and at the first sign of pursuit, we'll lay an ambush of our own, like we done before.”

They rode south until Blackburn judged they had ridden far enough. They then continued eastward, finding the terrain a little less broken.

“We should of done this sooner,” Isaac said. “It ain't so rough, and we can make lots better time.”

“Don't get too excited,” said Felix. “Just when you think this country's levelin' out, it laughs in your face and confronts you with a deep canyon.”

It might have been a prophecy, for when they topped a ridge and looked down, there was the canyon. While they might have led their horses down the canyon wall, the floor was wide—a quarter mile or more—and it was a litter of insurmountable hummocks of stone. Attempting to cross would be time-consuming, for at any point they might have to retrace their steps. The three stared at the yawning abyss, and Isaac Puckett spoke.

“My God, if the Utes showed up while we was fightin' our way across that, we'd just as well take our Colts an' shoot ourselves. They'd be within arrow range, and there's all kinds of cover along the rims.”

“We may have to ride for miles to get across,” Felix Blackburn said. “Those Indians may have been holdin' back until we reached this very place. All they'd have to do is come after us from the north and west, and then ride us down.”

“I don't like your predictions,” said Josh Snyder. “You spoke of this damn canyon, and it showed up.”

Blackburn laughed, but it escalated into a startled yelp, for there was an ever-growing cloud of dust to the west.

“God Almighty,” Puckett said, “here they come.”

The trio kicked their horses into a fast gallop, racing eastward along the jagged rim of the massive canyon, seeking a place to cross. Behind them, the dust cloud separated as some of the pursuers swung away to the
north, closing that avenue of escape. The desperate trio must continue punishing their lathered horses, or risk a slow, hazardous crossing of the formidable canyon. Blackburn slowed his heaving horse, looked back, and then spoke the inevitable words.

“If we kill our horses, they'll get us anyhow. Into the canyon.”

The three of them were out of their saddles in an instant, and tired as the horses were, they fought the reins as they were led near the canyon rim. Blackburn got his horse over the edge first. They slid and fell two-thirds of the way down before the frightened horse regained its balance. Blackburn had struck his head on a stone, and when they got to the canyon floor, he lay there holding the reins. He arose just in time, for his companions and their mounts came tumbling and sliding down.

“Come on,” said Blackburn, shaking his head. “We have to get as far into these rocks as we can.”

Even as he spoke, the Utes were dismounting, shouting their excitement. To the horror of the three men below, they could see at least a dozen Indians, and they had no way of knowing there weren't more. Arrows whipped all around them until they were able to reach a huge stone hummock.

“Unlimber your Winchesters,” Blackburn panted. “This is the best cover we'll have, and if we don't even the odds some, we're goners.”

The Utes, believing their prey was intent only on escape, raced boldly along the rim, seeking targets. For just an instant, the desperate trio stepped from cover and fired. Three of the attackers died, and the rest retreated
from the canyon rim, shouting angrily. Again within the safety of their cover, the three had no time to gloat, for some of the Utes had mounted and were galloping along the canyon rim.

“We didn't run into this canyon coming from Santa Fe,” Snyder said. “That means it peters out somewhere, and these damn Indians know it.”

“You can count on it,” said Blackburn. “They aim to get on the other rim before we can get across. We'll be within range of their arrows from either side.”

“Only if they get there before we do,” Puckett growled. “Let's go.”

But enough Utes had been left behind to counter just such a move. No sooner had they left cover than an arrow thunked into Puckett's left shoulder, just above his shoulder blade. With a groan, he sagged against his horse.

“Go on,” Snyder shouted, “I'll lead your horse.”

But an arrow grazed the animal's flank, and it reared. A second arrow ripped through the throat of the unfortunate beast, and it fell. It lay there kicking, its thrashing about becoming less and less as its life bled into the stony canyon floor. Puckett groaned, as much for the loss of the horse as from the arrow. He stumbled along, Snyder helping with a firm grip on the wounded man's gun belt.

“Come on,” Blackburn shouted. “We're goin' to make it.”

But they didn't. The half a dozen Utes who had ridden away had been able to cross the canyon, and now galloped along the opposite rim. They reined up, shouting and nocking arrows to their bow strings. But
their joy was short-lived, for somewhere behind them came a thunder of gunfire. The six tumbled over the rim, dead before they reached the canyon floor.

“Thank God,” Isaac Puckett shouted. “We're in the company of white men, and we're safe.”

He was only half right.

*   *   *

By the time Faro and Collins returned to the wagons, Durham had disappeared, while the McCutcheons—having washed off mud and blood—had donned fresh clothing.

“Where's Durham and the McCutcheons?” Faro asked.

“I don't know,” said Dallas, “and I don't give a damn.”

“They've been at it again, then,” Faro said.

“They have,” said Dallas. “I'll spare you the sorry details.”

“God bless you,” Faro said.

“You're not going to include them in what we've learned?” Collins asked.

“I can't depend on them not to raise hell every time I turn my back,” said Faro, “so the very last thing I'd do is trust any one of the three in a situation that might get us all shot dead.”

“God bless you,” Dallas said.

“Amen,” said Shanghai and Tarno, in a single voice.

“Shall I tell you what Collins and me learned,” Faro said, “or should I pass the collection plate first?”

“Talk,” said Dallas. “I'm ready for somethin' serious to happen today, be it good or bad.”

“What we have to tell you is some good and some
bad,” Faro said. “I don't reckon you'll have any trouble figurin' which is which.”

Faro spoke for fifteen minutes, allowing Collins to fill in some details. Shanghai, Tarno, and Dallas listened in silence. When the grim discourse had ended, Faro's three companions remained silent, awaiting his plan. Faro spoke.

“We're up against impossible numbers, and our only chance is to hit them before they come after us. So the question is not
should
we attack, but
when
. We may be safe for the next three hundred miles, but we can't be sure of that. I can't tell you why I believe it—call it an uneasy hunch—but I believe we should hit them tonight. Do any of you object to that?”

There were no objections, and it was a wiser decision than any of them knew. Because of events unknown to them, they were but a few hours away from a devastating attack by the renegade, Perro Cara, and his band of bloodthirsty Utes….

“Come on,” Felix Blackburn shouted. “Let's greet the gents that saved our bacon.”

With Josh Snyder helping the wounded Isaac Puckett along, they fought their way through the jumble of rock to the opposite side of the canyon. But when they looked toward the rim, they couldn't believe their eyes, for there was a line of mounted Indians, and each of them had a Winchester under his arm! Blackburn was first to recover from the shock and was raising his own Winchester, when a cold voice stopped him.

“I wouldn't do that, pilgrim.”

Blackburn lowered the weapon, and a skeleton-thin rider made his way through the line of mounted Indians to the canyon's rim.

“Who are you?” Blackburn demanded.

“Hueso. Don't mind the Utes. They won't bother you, long as you don't make sudden, unfriendly moves.”

He nodded to the Indians and five of them uncoiled lariats. A loop was dropped over the heads of the three men and the two horses. The men were quickly brought up to the canyon rim, but it was with considerable difficulty
the horses were assisted in climbing up the steep wall.

“We're obliged,” Blackburn said. “Our
amigo
, here, is in need of havin' this arrow removed and his wound doctored.”

“Mount up,” said Hueso. “The wounded one can double with me.”

Before mounting his own horse, Blackburn helped the wounded Isaac up behind the thin man. When he led out, riding eastward, six of the dozen Indians fell back behind the newly rescued white men. There was no conversation, and when they rode into the canyon, Puckett, Blackburn, and Snyder stared in dismay. In addition to the formidable number of Indians, there were seven white men, all of them armed. Josh Snyder looked as though he was about to do something desperate, and Blackburn shook his head. They rode almost to the head of the canyon, where a fire had burned down to the coals. A pair of the ugliest men the trio of miners had ever seen were hunkered there, drinking from tin cups. There was a blackened coffeepot on the coals, sending forth an aroma of fresh coffee. The ugly duo got to their feet, and the one missing an ear spoke.

“What you got there, Hueso?”

“These gents got on the bad side of some Utes,” Hueso said. “One of 'em has an arrow drove through an' needin' his wound tended. I reckoned you might find 'em interestin' to palaver with.”

“I reckon,” said the ugly one. “I'm Perro Cara. That's Dog Face, in English. Who are you gents?”

“Felix Blackburn, Isaac Puckett, and Josh Snyder,” Blackburn said, answering for the three of them. “That's
Puckett with the arrow. We'd appreciate some doctorin' for him.”

“Quintado,” Dog Face shouted.

A buckskin-clad Indian approached the fire.

“
Médico
,” said Dog Face, pointing to Puckett.

The Indian nodded. From among cooking utensils, he took an iron pot and filled it with water from the stream. Removing the coffeepot, he placed the iron pot on the coals and surrounded it with resinous pine.

“We're all out of whiskey,” Dog Face said, his eyes on Puckett. “That arrow will have to be drove on through, and it'll hurt like seven kinds of hell. Quintado's got herbs that'll heal the wound.”

“Do what needs doin',” Puckett gritted.

He cried out in pain as the Indian drove the barb on through, and afterward, seemed unconscious. Except for Quintado, the rest of the Indians paid no attention, but Slade and his companions were very interested. Hindes spoke.

“Who are they, and what are they doin' here?”

“If I had to guess,” said Slade. “I'd say they been watchin' over that gold claim that's somewhere west of here. Sounds like the Utes run 'em off.”

“My God,” Kritzer said, “that means this renegade bunch just got their hands on the
hombres
that can lead 'em to that gold claim.”

“Yeah,” said Withers, “and when Dog Face figgers it out, how long will it take him to decide he don't need us?”

Hindes laughed. “About as long as it takes to pull a trigger five times.”

“We got to bust out of here,” said Peeler frantically.

“I won't question the need for that,” Slade said. “It's the
how
that's botherin' me. For the last few minutes, that bunch of Utes has been watchin' us. Hell, even
they
know somethin' is changed.”

Slade was more right than even he realized, for Dog Face wasted no time. As soon as Isaac Puckett's wound had been treated and he was sleeping, the renegade leader turned to Josh Snyder and Felix Blackburn.

“What are you gents doin' this far in the mountains, in Ute country?”

“Don't you think that's kind of our business?” Blackburn replied.

“It was,” said Dog Face, “but it's mine, now. If my outfit hadn't showed up, all of you would be graveyard dead. Your lives oughta be worth somethin', don't you think?”

“We're in your debt,” Blackburn said, “but I think we have the right
not
to reveal our personal business.”

“I generally collect my debts,” said Dog Face. As though by magic, a Colt appeared in his big hand. “Sangre, take their guns.”

Sangre did as bidden, and there was nothing Blackburn and Snyder could do. When they were unarmed, Dog Face slid the Colt under his waistband. Then he spoke.

“I'm askin' you one more time. What are you doin' in these mountains that's worth the risk of your hair and your lives?”

“We've been prospecting,” said Blackburn grudgingly.

“Have any luck?” Dog Face demanded.