Devil's Canyon (23 page)

“We heard a shot,” Dallas Weaver said, “and we was all set to grab our guns and come a-runnin'. But there wasn't any more shots, and we reckoned you either had things under control, or it was too late. Looks like you come out all right.”

“Yes,” said Faro, “but in a humiliating kind of way.”

He held nothing back, telling them of being forced to shoot the Indian, of his capture, and of his release by the renegades.

“I didn't learn a damn thing,” he admitted, “except that Slade is part of the renegade outfit.”

“To the contrary,” said Collins, “I'd say you learned
a lot. Now we know they want us alive until we lead them to the claim.”

“Yeah,” Kritzer said, “and we know there's nothin' Slade won't do. Elsewise, he sure as hell wouldn't of throwed in with that scruffy bunch.”

“After today,” said Tarno, “I'd say we better not get too close. Indians ain't the forgivin' kind, and that bunch of Utes will be watchin' for you. Get within Winchester range and they'll kill you.”

“I agree,” Collins said. “Let's not take needless risks when there's little to be gained. I think it'll take every man of us with a gun in his hands before we reach the end of this trail.”

“You're right,” said Faro. “I walked into that like a real short horn, and only with a pile of luck and more than my share of the grace of God am I alive.”

Durham laughed. “Duval gets his tail feathers clipped by a few Indians and he's done got religion. There'll be prayer meetin' on Sunday morning, with dinner on the ground.”

“Shut up, Durham,” Shanghai growled.

Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon wanted to laugh, but thought better of it. The rest of the men seemed a little uncomfortable, but Faro ignored the grinning gambler. The wagons again took the trail west. The sun was barely noon-high when Durham kicked his horse into a gallop past the wagons.

“There's Indians on the back trail,” he shouted. “Since you took my guns, I hope you won't mind if I don't join in the fight.”

In an instant, the men were off the wagon boxes, Winchesters in their hands. Collins leaped from the
saddle and came on the run. The Utes had attacked the last two wagons, and as they swept past, Odessa McCutcheon and Felix Blackburn shot two of them off their horses. But the Indians were well within range and their arrows began taking a toll. One of the deadly barbs ripped through Dallas Weaver's left shoulder and another tore into Josh Snyder's right thigh. Mamie McCutcheon fell with a cry, wounded in her right side, just above her gun belt. But it had been a costly charge, and the Utes rode away, leaving nine dead behind.

“Isaac, take over the reins for Dallas,” Faro said. “Josh, can you stay on the horse, or do you want a place in one of the wagons?”

“I'll stay with the horse,” said Snyder.

“Felix,” Faro said, “you can join me in the first wagon, while Collins takes his horse. Some of you help Mamie up on the box with Odessa. We'll stop at the nearest water and tend the wounds.”

Having gotten well ahead of the wagons, Durham hadn't received a scratch. He now rode back, just as Faro Duval stepped down from the first wagon.

“Here,” said Faro, handing the gambler his Colt and Winchester. “Next time you pull iron on anybody in this outfit, you'd better shoot me first, because if you don't, I'll kill you.”

Durham accepted the weapons without comment. The wagons rumbled on, taking more than two hours to reach water. While the teams were being unharnessed, Felix Blackburn got a fire going and put on a pot of water to boil. Now familiar with the procedure, Levi Collins took three quarts of whiskey from one of the wagons. The first he gave to Dallas Weaver,
the second to Josh Snyder, and the third to Mamie McCutcheon.

“Mr. Collins,” Mamie said, “who's goin' to take this arrow out of me?”

“I don't know,” said Collins. “Why?”

“I want Duval to do it,” Mamie said.

“I'll tell him,” said Collins. “Drink the whiskey.”

“I'll want some help,” Faro said, when Collins informed him of Mamie's request. “I'll not lay a hand on either of these females without a witness.”

“I can't say I blame you,” said Collins. “I've never seen such conduct. They've gone out of their way to humiliate you. I'll ride shotgun for you while you remove Mamie's arrow, if you like.”

“I'd be obliged,” Faro said.

Faro spent three nerve-racking hours removing the arrows. Finished, his shirt was soaked with sweat and he was more than a little sick to his stomach.

“You'd better stretch out in the shade for a while,” said Felix Blackburn. “There's hot coffee when you're ready.”

“I'm obliged,” Faro said.

“We'll remain here for the night,” said Levi Collins. “I think we've all had enough for this day.”

Faro slept the sleep of the exhausted, and when he awoke the sun was down and Felix had supper ready.

“How are the wounded?” Faro asked.

“As well as can be expected,” said Collins. “They're sleeping off the whiskey. Durham and Odessa, too.”

“Durham and Odessa?”

“Yes,” Collins said. “Odessa offered to stay with
Mamie, and I left her a full quart of whiskey. Durham joined her and they killed the bottle.”

“When Mamie needs more whiskey,” said Faro, “see that she gets it. But not a drop more.”

“I'd already made that decision,” Collins said. “I was a damn fool.”

Faro laughed. “It was your turn.”

With Dallas Weaver and Josh Snyder wounded, each watch was a man shy.

“I'll look in on the wounded during the first watch,” Collins said, “if you'll check on them during the second.”

“
Bueno
,” said Faro. “I think we might as well plan on laying over an extra day.”

“Perhaps two,” Collins said, “and then only with the wounded riding the wagons. But we can't spare too many days. We don't know how long the good weather's going to hold. There could be more snow anytime, and it could be with us a lot longer.”

Collins's prediction proved accurate, and after a two-day delay, when they again took the trail, those all-too-familiar gray clouds hovered on the horizon.

“It's time to look for shelter,” said Faro. “I'll be back soon as I can.”

“Don't shoot any more Indians, Duval,” Durham said. “They seem a little touchy.”

Faro set his jaw, kept his silence, and rode out.

“By God,” said Tarno Spangler, “Faro's got more patience than I have. I'd have done shot that varmint dead.”

“I never trusted or liked Durham from the time Slade tied in with him,” said Kritzer, riding with Tarno
on the wagon box. “Somebody's gonna kill that gambler, just on general principles, and I hope I'm around to see it.”

Faro sought a canyon with water, and if possible, some graze, but found nothing that seemed suitable. He finally settled for a spring with a run-off in a brush- and tree-lined hollow. Even then the wagons had to travel almost fifteen miles before the storm struck. He met the wagons, and Collins reined them all up to rest the mules.

“It's a good fifteen miles,” Faro said, “and no canyon. Just a spring in a hollow, with some tree and brush cover. We'll have to depend on our extra canvas and the wagons to protect us from wind and snow. We don't have any time to spare.”

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.