Sidewinders

by William W. Johnstone

  Scratch and Gustaffson both looked like they were about to lose their tempers. Bo was more than a mite annoyed himself at Holbrook’s smug certainty that he was right. Keeping a tight rein on his own anger, Bo said, “Maybe you’d better let Scratch and me do a little scouting before you go charging in there, Lieutenant. That’s why you brought us along, isn’t it?”

  Holbrook shrugged. “I suppose so. I don’t want to waste this opportunity, though. I’ll give you a few minutes to reconnoiter in that canyon, but then I’m leading my men in pursuit of the enemy.”

  “Just wait until we get back,” Bo suggested.

  “And if you hear shots, don’t come chargin’ in there,” Scratch added. “We’ll get back to you if we can. If we can’t, then you’ll know it was a trap and we’ve sprung it.”

  “Go ahead,” Holbrook said. Bo noted that the lieutenant didn’t actually promise to go along with what they had asked, and that left him with an uneasy feeling as Scratch mounted up and the two of them rode toward the dark cleft.

  “I knew no good would come from gettin’ mixed up with some greenhorn glory hound,” Scratch muttered as they approached the canyon mouth.

  “Maybe he’ll wait,” Bo said.

  “You really think so?”

  “Well, it depends on whether or not he listens to Olaf.”

  “He ain’t showed no signs of it so far,” Scratch pointed out.

  “Yeah, I know,” Bo said, and he couldn’t keep a note of worry out of his voice.

  The Texans drew their Winchesters and rested them across the saddles as they reached the mouth of the canyon. The wind that whistled down the cleft was bone chilling. Steep, rocky walls rose fifty or sixty feet on both sides of them, and the dark, overcast day meant that a thick gloom clogged the canyon as they proceeded into it. They rode side by side, Bo on the right and Scratch on the left, and each of them watched the rimrock on his side, alert for any sign of an ambush. There were no sounds except the slow, steady hoofbeats of their horses.

  They reached the first bend and rode around it. Now they could see another hundred yards or so ahead of them. The canyon floor was empty except for some boulders and stunted bushes here and there along the base of the walls.

  “This cut’s liable to zigzag along for a mile or more, without ever runnin’ straight for more’n a hundred yards at a time,” Scratch said. “And then it might run smack-dab into a dead end.”

  Bo knew his friend was right. Some geological upheaval in the dim, distant past had created this canyon, possibly at the same time the rest of the Black Hills had risen. He had read about such things in books, and he had seen the results many times with his own eyes.

  That cataclysm had left a number of large rocks broken and perched on the rims of both sides of the canyon. Bo eyed them warily as he and Scratch rode past.

  “It wouldn’t take much to start an avalanche along here,” he said quietly. “Get a log and lever one or two of those boulders over the edge, and it would pick up plenty more on the way down.”

  “Yeah, this place gives me the fantods,” Scratch agreed. “But the Devils came this way. I’m still seein’ sign.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Maybe the lieutenant’s right. Maybe their hideout really is up here.”

  Scratch grunted. “If that shave tail was ever right about anything, it was a pure-dee accident. I got a hunch that havin’ that old sarge around is the only reason the young fella’s still alive.”

  Scratch might be right about that, Bo thought. Unfortunately, Olaf Gustaffson was just a sergeant. When it came down to the nub, Gustaffson had to obey the orders of his superior officer. Holbrook was so bound and determined to catch the Devils and grab some fame and glory—and maybe a promotion—in the process, he might not let Gustaffson continue to influence his decisions.

  The canyon continued to twist back and forth, almost as sinuous as a diamondback rattler wriggling its way across the ground. The walls became more sheer and rose even higher by the time Bo and Scratch had penetrated half a mile into the canyon. The shadows thickened even though the sun was high overhead now. That was because the clouds were so thick and threatening. At least they were past the area where the threat of a rockslide loomed, Bo thought.

  They reined in for a moment, and Bo asked, “You reckon we ought to go back and fetch the lieutenant and the rest of the patrol?”

  “Everything looks clear so far,” Scratch admitted. “Maybe it’d be a better idea if we split up. You can go back and fetch the soldier boys, and I’ll keep headin’ deeper into—”

  “Wait a minute,” Bo interrupted. “You hear that?”

  Scratch’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened. Then they widened and he let out a curse. “Horses comin’ up the canyon!” he exclaimed. “The dang shavetail got tired o’ waitin’!”

  It was true. The faint rataplan of hoofbeats on the rocky ground echoed up the canyon toward the Texans, growing slightly louder with the passing of each second.

  Bo started to wheel his horse. “I’d better get back there with them—” he began.

  He stopped short as he heard a new sound. It was an ominous, deep-throated rumble, and both Texans instantly knew what it meant.

  “Avalanche!” Scratch yelled.

  CHAPTER 19

  They jerked their horses around and sent the animals galloping back down the canyon. It was clear what had happened: the outlaws had been hidden up on the rimrock, possibly on both sides of the canyon, and had let Bo and Scratch ride past without springing the trap. The Devils were after a bigger payoff than just two Texans.

  Then, when Lieutenant Holbrook had led his men up the canyon as well, the outlaws had struck. Scratch had said all along that they weren’t going to any trouble to hide their trail, and now it was obvious why. They had this plan ready to fall back on if their ambush of the night before failed, and Holbrook’s impulsive actions had played right into their hands.

  “Dang fool couldn’t wait!” Scratch shouted over the pounding hoofbeats. Bo nodded grimly. The avalanche’s roar was louder now. Bo knew that any men and horses caught in its path wouldn’t stand much of a chance. It was probably too late already to help any of the troopers, but he and Scratch had to try.

  They raced around the bends in the canyon at breakneck speed. The terrible rumbling began to subside. Avalanches were horribly destructive but usually didn’t last all that long. This one seemed to be coming to an end.

  As the Texans guided their horses through another twist, they spotted clouds of dust billowing up in front of them. Along with the noise, that was another sign of an avalanche. All those tumbling rocks kicked up a lot of dust.

  Bo reined in, and Scratch followed suit. Plunging into that blinding cloud wouldn’t do any good. They wouldn’t be able to see where they were going.

  Scratch bit back a curse. “We’re gonna have to wait for some of that dust to blow away,” he said.

  “Yeah, but it shouldn’t take long,” Bo said. “Not with the way the wind’s blowing through this canyon.”

  It was true. The cloud of dust began to drift down the canyon. As it did, the sudden, sharp rap of gunshots made the Texans stiffen in their saddles.

  “The Devils are tryin’ to finish off the troopers who survived the rockslide!” Scratch said.

  “Come on!” Bo called as he urged his horse into motion again. “We’ll give them a hand!”

  Now that they knew at least some of the cavalrymen had survived the avalanche but were still in danger from the outlaws, there was no time to waste. Bo and Scratch galloped down the canyon and came in sight of a huge pile of rocks that filled the cleft from one side to the other. Muzzle flashes stabbed into the gloom from some of the rocks at the edge of the slide and were answered by more orange tongues of flame from the rimrock.

  Bo and Scratch left the saddles while their horses were still running and landed with their rifles in hand. They snatched their hats off their heads, slapped at the horses and yelled, and sent the animals gall
oping back up the canyon, out of the line of fire.

  The Texans ran behind some rocks just beyond the bend and opened fire on the bushwhackers along the rimrock. A haze of dust still hung in the air, stinging eyes and noses and making it harder to see. But that was true for the men up on the canyon walls, too. They had to be having trouble picking out targets down below.

  A man suddenly staggered into view on the rimrock, clutching at his belly. A bullet had found him, and he was mortally wounded. With a terrified scream, he toppled off the sheer cliff and plunged to the canyon floor, landing on the massive pile of rocks with a grisly thud that silenced him in mid-shriek.

  That was one of the varmints down, anyway, Bo thought.

  But there were still plenty more up there, and they continued to pour lead down into the canyon.

  “This ain’t doin’ any good, Bo!” Scratch called.

  “I know! We need to get up there somehow.”

  “There ain’t no way!”

  Bo looked at the rough canyon walls and said, “Not for a man on horseback, but a fella might be able to climb!”

  Scratch looked at him like he’d gone loco. “A mountain goat, maybe, but not a man!”

  “I’m going to give it a try anyway. Stay here and do what you can to help those troopers!”

  Without giving Scratch a chance to argue any more, Bo lunged out from behind the boulder where he had taken cover and raced around the bend in the trail. A bullet whined over his shoulder as he did so. The Devils up on the rimrock probably thought he was giving up and fleeing while he had the chance.

  He hoped he would be able to give them a nice hot lead surprise before too much longer.

  When Bo was safely around the bend, he paused and took off his belt, then used it to rig a sling for the Winchester so he could carry it over his shoulder. His eyes searched the canyon walls for footholds and handholds he could use in his climb. It wouldn’t be easy, and he knew he ought to be twenty years younger to be trying such a fool stunt, but if something didn’t happen to change the odds a little, the Devils could perch up there on the rimrock and take all day to wipe out the patrol if they needed to.

  Bo settled on his route and went over to the wall. He took his hat and coat off and dropped them on the ground. The cold wind cut through his shirt and vest, but the coat would be a hindrance while he was climbing. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and reached up to grip the first handhold he had spotted.

  Bo’s muscles protested as he lifted himself, but they would just have to get used to it. He wedged his foot against a rocky knob and shoved himself higher. Now he could reach the next handhold and grip it firmly to haul himself up.

  Around the bend, the gunfire continued without slacking off. The troopers were putting up a good fight. Bo hoped that meant quite a few of them had survived the avalanche. If Sergeant Gustaffson was among them, they might have a chance to hold off the outlaws long enough for Bo to reach the rimrock and lend them a hand.

  The wall rose about fifty feet above the canyon floor. Some stretches were almost sheer, but other parts were easier going. Bo climbed doggedly, never looking down but keeping his eyes on the wall above him. He didn’t even let himself think about how there was nothing underneath him but empty air.

  There was one especially bad moment when a rock he was gripping shifted a little under his hand, threatening to throw him off balance, but the rock didn’t pull loose and he was able to press himself against the wall until the frenzied thudding of his heart slowed slightly. He had two good footholds at the moment, so he tested the rock again. This time it held, and he was able to use it to pull himself higher.

  He had no idea how long he had been climbing, so it took him a little by surprise when he suddenly reached the rimrock and rolled over the edge. With solid ground under him again, he lay there for a moment catching his breath. Then he rolled over and pushed himself up onto one knee.

  The Devils were all on the other side of the canyon. They gathered among the rocks where they had started the avalanche, using the remaining boulders for cover. They were still firing down into the canyon and didn’t seem to have noticed Bo reaching the top on the other side.

  In the weak light of the overcast afternoon, he could see several of the outlaws. They weren’t wearing their usual bandana masks, but he couldn’t make out enough details of their faces to recognize any of them. The rimrock rose a little on this side of the canyon, enough to give him some cover if he stretched out behind it. As he did so, he picked his targets and worked out in his mind the order in which he would take them.

  Some fast, accurate shooting on his part was really the only chance those troopers down there had.

  Lying on his belly, Bo propped himself on his elbows and snugged the butt of the Winchester against his shoulder. The rifle already had a bullet in the firing chamber. He took a deep breath, settled his sights on the first man he was going to try to take down, and squeezed the trigger.

  Before the whipcrack of the shot could even start to echo through the canyon and join the echoes of all the other shots, Bo had worked the Winchester’s lever and shifted his sights. A second shot blasted out. He didn’t take the time to see if his bullets found their targets. Instead he jacked the lever and fired again and again and again, so that the shots formed a continuous roar.

  Bo didn’t stop shooting. He had reloaded the rifle before starting his climb, so he’d had a full sixteen rounds in it, one in the chamber and fifteen in the magazine. He fired all sixteen shots in that many seconds, maybe a little less. From this angle, even the outlaws he couldn’t see were in danger from the storm of lead because the bullets were bouncing around among those rocks on the other wall.

  Bo counted off the shots, and when the Winchester was empty he quickly scooted backward, knowing that the Devils would return his fire. Dirt and pebbles leaped into the air as bullets chewed into the edge of the rimrock. Bo stayed as low as he could. He heard slugs whining through the air just above his head. Where he was, though, they couldn’t reach him.

  Of course, he couldn’t stick his head up, either, not without getting a bullet through the brain.

  While he was lying there, he thumbed fresh cartridges through the Winchester’s loading gate. A sudden outburst of firing from the opposite wall of the canyon made him glance in that direction. For a second he thought some of the Devils had moved down there to get better shots at him, but then he saw a familiar figure kneeling behind a rock on that side and directing his fire toward the outlaws.

  Scratch!

  The silver-haired Texan ducked lower behind the rock as his rifle ran dry. Bo shouted over to him. “What in blazes are you doing up there?”

  Scratch flashed a grin back at him. “I was always a better climber than you!” he called. “Figured if you could do it, I could, too, and we could lay into the varmints from two directions at once!”

  Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea, Bo thought, although Scratch was in more danger because he was on the same side of the canyon as the Devils.

  But it appeared they had the outlaws on the run again. The shooting had died down, and when Bo risked a look, he spotted several of the figures in their long coats dashing away from the edge of the canyon. He opened fire on them again, hoping to bring down one or two more, but they were out of sight too quickly for that.

  “Varmints are lightin’ a shuck!” Scratch called as hoofbeats sounded.

  “I know. Did you see how many of them got away?”

  “Half a dozen, I reckon. Maybe one or two more.”

  They had to have wiped out at least half the gang, Bo thought. But that left a number of them still on the loose, free to raise more hell. Also, there was no way of knowing how many confederates the Devils might have who were still back in Deadwood.

  Right now, though, since the shooting had stopped, the immediate problem was helping the survivors of the avalanche. That meant climbing back down into the canyon.

  “I’ll keep an eye out in case they double b
ack,” Bo called across to Scrach. “You can climb down first.”

  Scratch reached down to the ground and lifted a coil of rope. “I brought my lariat with me,” he responded. “I’ll tie it on to something and get down that way. Won’t take long.”

  “Good idea,” Bo told him. He held his rifle ready and scanned the opposite ridge while Scratch made the rope fast to a rock and went down it hand-overhand, using his feet to hold himself away from the canyon wall.

  When Scratch was down, Bo went back to the spot where he had climbed up. Since he knew all the handholds and footholds now, the descent went slightly faster, but he still had to take it slow and be careful. He didn’t want to fall and break a leg or worse now that the fight with the Devils was over.

  By the time Bo reached the canyon floor, Scratch had already gone to see what the situation was at the site of the avalanche. Bo joined his old friend and found Scratch talking to Sgt. Olaf Gustaffson. Relief went through Bo at the sight of the non-com, who had a bloody scratch on his head but otherwise appeared to be all right. Several of the troopers were nearby, searching through the rockslide.

  Gustaffson gave Bo a curt nod. “Glad to see you’re all right, Creel. And thanks for giving us a hand like that. If you hadn’t come back to help us, those outlaws would’ve sat up there like buzzards and picked us all off sooner or later.”

  “I’m glad you made it, too, Sergeant,” Bo said. “Where’s the lieutenant?”

  Gustaffson grimaced and nodded toward the huge pile of rocks in the center of the canyon. “Under there somewhere. His horse went down while we were making a run for it. I turned back to try to pick him up, but before I could get there, a bunch of rocks swept right over him.” Gustaffson sighed. “I didn’t like him, but Lord, I wouldn’t wish something like that on anybody.”

  “You and those other men are the only ones who made it?”