Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  The waiter arrived with their food, and Collins quickly swept the gold-laden hat off the table and into his lap. Collins had said just enough, and they proceeded to eat. Not until they were drinking final cups of coffee did anybody speak.

  “Collins,” said Faro, “if there’s more gold where that came from, the proposition you just made us is beginnin’ to seem worth the risk. I’m speaking for myself, now. Each of my amigos will make his own decision.”

  “Count me in,” Shanghai said.

  “Same here,” said Tarno.

  “I’ll go,” Dallas said, “but if it turns out this claim’s been salted, just to lure us into haulin’ supplies five hundred miles through the devil’s backyard, then I’ll get mean.”

  Collins laughed. “I don’t blame you, my friend, but you have nothing to worry about. Do you think I’d be spending every dollar we own for supplies, and then hauling them five hundred miles into the mountains, if there wasn’t some reward?”

  “He has something there, Dallas,” said Faro. “Collins, do you honestly believe you’ll need four wagon loads of supplies to last a year?”

  “Yes,” Collins replied, “and I just hope that’ll be enough. We have four pack mules and our horses, and there are your teams. They’ll need grain at least twice a week, maybe every day, when snow flies.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Faro. “Besides our teams, we each have a horse.”

  “We’re likely to need one wagon just for shells for our Colts and Winchesters,” Tarno said. “All the gold in Utah won’t be worth a damn, if them Utes attack and we discover we just opened our last tin of shells.”

  “I’m taking all that into account,” said Collins. “There’s virtually no game, especially in winter, so everything will have to be freighted in.”

  “One thing bothers me,” Faro said. “There’s always a bunch of hombres around the saloons and mercantiles that take an almighty lot of interest in other folks’ business. When you take to buyin’ supplies and ammunition by the wagon load, that’s bound to arouse the curiosity of somebody. Like you said, a man don’t spend that kind of money, unless he’s got ideas of recoverin’ it, with interest. I’d not be surprised if we don’t have to ventilate some claim jumpers pronto.”

  “I hadn’t considered that,” Collins said, “but you could be right. We’re going to need maybe a wagon load of dynamite, and that’s enough to stir up some interest.”

  “My God, yes,” said Tarno. “That’s enough dynamite to blow up all of Utah.”

  “It won’t be too much,” Collins said. “When you see the claim, and what we must move to reach the gold, you’ll understand. Now, to prove my good intentions, I want all of you to fill in your names as one-quarter owners to our strike.”

  “I reckon we’ll have plenty of time for that,” said Faro.

  “No,” Collins insisted, “I want all of you to begin thinking of yourselves as owners.”

  “Have it your way,” said Faro. “You’re a trusting man, Collins.”

  “To the contrary,” Collins said, “I prefer to think of myself as a good judge of character. I watched you playing poker in the saloon. The man who taunted you—that you had to shoot—had been cheating. You could have called his hand, shot him, and been without fault, but you didn’t. Not until he forced you, and even then, you didn’t want to kill him. It takes a man to forgive a lesser man his faults, to accept his insults without returning them in kind.”

  “All of us were with General Lee,” said Faro, “and we’ve seen enough dying to last us a lifetime. I’d never shoot a man for shootin’ off his mouth, but when he pulls a gun, he’d better be almighty fast, because that’s where my patience ends. Now when do you aim to start buyin’ those supplies?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Collins said. “Maybe I can get to the mercantiles before the hangers-on show up.”

  “We’ll look for you there, then,” said Faro. “Soon as you’ve made your best deals, we’ll start loadin’. I hope you have no preference as to loading, because we do.”

  “You have the experience,” Collins said. “Load the wagons as you see fit. I have only one request. Allow some room in each of the wagons for some dynamite.”

  “I reckon you have a reason for that,” said Faro.

  “Yes,” Collins replied. “It’ll be a rough trail, and explosives can be touchy. If all the dynamite’s on one wagon, and it blows, then we’re all out of dynamite.”

  “We’re also minus a teamster, his teams, and a wagon,” said Tarno.

  “Yes,” Collins said. “That too.”

  Sante Fe, New Mexico. August 2, 1870.

  Collins started with four barrels of flour, and one was loaded on each wagon.

  “I hope one of your amigos can make biscuits,” said Shanghai. “None of us is worth a damn at it.”

  “You’re in luck,” Collins said. “Perhaps I should say we’re in luck. Felix Blackburn, one of my partners, once was a cook in New Orleans.”

  “Cooked for one of them fancy hotels, I reckon,” said Tarno.

  “No,” Collins said. “He killed a man over a saloon girl and spent two years in jail. He learned to cook while he was there.”

  “Sounds like our kind of hombre,” said Dallas. “After the war, we was all goin’ back to Texas and rustle cattle, but the varmints wasn’t worth nothin’ unless they was drove all the way to Kansas, to the railroad.”

  Collins laughed, uncertain as to how much of what he was hearing was guarded truth, or simply cowboy humor.

  “I’d suggest you save the dynamite and ammunition until last,” Faro said. “That’s the two things that’ll likely stir the most interest. We ought to be as close as we can to pullin’ out of here before anybody begins to wonder what we’re up to.”

  But as the day wore on, it soon became apparent that four wagons simply would not accommodate all that Collins considered necessary.

  “He’s figurin’ on an almighty lot of dynamite,” said Shanghai.

  “Too damn much dynamite,” Tarno agreed.

  “But we can’t be sure of that,” said Faro. “He’s familiar with the claim, so we’ll have to concede that he knows what he’s doing.”

  “One thing he’s figured all wrong,” Dallas said. “We need a fifth wagon.”

  “Well, I hope he has an answer to that,” said Faro, “because I don’t. Even if we had the wagon, we have no mules, and we all know there’s none for sale.”

  “Well, hell,” Tarno said, “let’s give up this fool idea of goin’ to Utah after gold ore. We could get rich, drivin’ mule herds from Independence to Santa Fe.”

  “You should have thought of that yesterday,” said Faro. “We’ve given our word.”

  “Yeah,” Dallas said, “and there’ll still be a mule shortage in Santa Fe next year.”

  “We either tell Collins he’s a wagon shy, or let him figure it out for himself,” Tarno said. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” said Faro. “Maybe he can cut back on something.”

  But that was the last thing Collins had in mind.

  “I don’t want to question your judgment,” Collins said, “and I don’t doubt it when you say we’re running out of wagon space, but we’ll need everything I’m planning to buy. I have the money to buy a wagon, necessary harness, and teams, and I’ve been a teamster in my time. See if there’s a wagon and teams for sale anywhere in Sante Fe.”

  Faro visited every stable and wagon yard to no avail. He was about to return to the mercantile and tell Collins the situation was hopeless, when he rode past a saloon. Behind it was a wagon, with mules hitched to it. Faro dismounted and entered the saloon. It was midday, and there were few patrons.

  “There’s mules and a wagon out back,” said Faro. “I’d like to talk to the owner.”

  “That’s me,” said a man who had all the earmarks of a professional gambler. “I’m Hal Durham.”

  “I’m Faro Duval, and I need mules and a wagon. There’s none
to be had, except for yours. Are they for sale?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Durham said. “Sorry.”

  It was his right not to sell, but Faro didn’t like the looks of him. He was dressed all in black, like an undertaker or circuit-riding preacher, and on his feet were gaiters, instead of boots. His flat-crowned black Stetson had a silver band encircling it, there was a flaming red sash about his middle, and a silver watch chain draped over one side of his vest.

  “God,” said one man to another, “the medicine show must be comin’. Damned if the dancin’ bear ain’t already here.”

  His companion flipped the brim of Durham’s hat, and when it fell to the floor, put his foot on it. The pair of them laughed.

  “I’ll ask you only once,” Durham said. “Pick up my hat, dust it off, and place it on my head.”

  “Haw, haw,” said his antagonist. “When hell freezes.”

  Durham’s right hand moved like a striking rattler, and when the brass knucks struck the other man’s jaw, he went down like a clubbed steer. His companion reached for his gun but he wasn’t quick enough. The brass knucks slammed into his jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.

  “Here,” the barkeep shouted, “no fighting in here.”

  Friends of the two felled men were trying to revive them.

  “Hey,” somebody said, “these gents is got busted jaws. Look how they’re hangin’.”

  “I ain’t takin’ no responsibility for this,” the barkeep shouted. “Somebody git the law in here.”

  Sheriff Easton arrived, studied the situation, and turned to the barkeep.

  “He done it, Sheriff,” said the barkeep, pointing to Durham.

  “Done what?” Easton demanded. “I didn’t hear no shots.”

  “Busted their jaws,” said the barkeep. “Maybe kilt ’em.”

  “The two on the floor started it, Sheriff,” Faro said. “This hombre slugged them.”

  “You again,” said Easton. “What’s your stake in this?”

  “I told you I was leaving town,” Faro said, “and I am. I needed another teamster, and I’m hirin’ this gent. He’ll be leaving town as I do.”

  “Him?” the lawman said. “He’s a teamster?”

  “Hell,” said the barkeep, “he’s a jackleg gambler, and he ain’t a very good one. Lock him up, Sheriff.”

  “I can’t see he’s violated any law,” Easton said. “You aim to press charges?”

  “Well, I…”

  “If he’s leavin’ town,” said the sheriff, “that’s good enough for me. What about it?”

  “You heard the gentleman,” Durham said haughtily. “I am working for him. Shall we be going, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Faro. “We have wagons to load.”

  The two men on the floor sat up, shaking their heads. The unruffled Durham stepped out the door, and Faro followed.

  Chapter 1

  “You take a lot for granted, my friend,” Durham said, when he and Faro had left the saloon. “I told you the wagon and mules aren’t for sale.”

  “I seem to recall you having mentioned that,” said Faro, “so I got you an invitation to leave town. Then, when you’re far enough out in the brush and cactus, I’ll just shoot you and take the teams and wagon.”

  Durham laughed. “A man after my own heart. It takes one with unconventional ways to appreciate them in another. Not that I care a damn, but why the urgent need for my wagon and teams?”

  “My three pards and I have taken on a hauling job requiring five wagons,” said Faro. “There’s not a wagon or mule to be had in all of Santa Fe.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Durham replied. “I acquired my teams and wagon while I was in Texas. A friendly wager turned serious, and I relieved a gentleman’s financial embarrassment by accepting his mules and wagon.”

  “You’re a gambler, then,” said Faro.

  “Any objection to that?”

  “I reckon not,” Faro said. “I set in on a game occasionally. It’s a cut or two above stealing.”

  “A man wins too often,” said Durham, “and it leads to a misunderstanding. There was an unfortunate soul killed yesterday evening, over a game, I hear.”

  “Yeah,” Faro said, “I heard about that. Every man has his price, Durham. What will it take to separate you from that wagon and mules?”

  “Like I told you,” said Durham, “they’re not for sale. When I leave here, I’m going on to California, and I’ll be needing them.”

  “Really?” Faro said. “What do you know about the country west of here?”

  “Nothing,” said Durham.

  “Then you should,” Faro said. “It’s all but impassable, even for experienced teamsters, and you’d be better off with a good saddle horse.”

  “Oh, I have a horse,” said Durham. “He follows the wagon on a lead rope. I kind of like the wagon.”

  “Durham,” Faro said, “this hauling job of ours will take us five hundred miles west of here. In the old days, that used to be a trade route to California. What would it take for us to hire the use of your wagon for a load of supplies as far as we’ll be going?”

  “I’d have to think about it,” said Durham. “A loaded wagon would slow me down.”

  “Oh, hell,” Faro said, “the damn wagon empty will slow you down to a crawl.”

  “I’ll consider it, then,” said Durham. “When will you be leaving?”

  “At dawn tomorrow,” Faro said. “We’ll be at the mercantile a while longer, should you change your mind.”

  Durham said nothing, and Faro left him standing before one of the many saloons in Santa Fe. A man who had been following Faro and Durham came on down the boardwalk, and ignoring Durham, entered the saloon. Durham waited a moment, making sure nobody was watching, and then entered the saloon.

  “A bottle,” Durham said to the barkeep.

  Taking his bottle, Durham looked around the dim interior of the saloon. It was still early, and there were only two or three other patrons. The seedy-looking stranger who had entered ahead of Durham sat at a corner table, and Durham sidled over there. Without a word, he hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it out, and sat down. The other man eyed him, took a pull from his bottle, and said nothing.

  “There’s four of ’em, Slade,” said Durham, “and all I was able to learn is that they’re haulin’ four wagon loads of supplies five hundred miles west of here.”

  “Exactly where are they haulin’ ’em?” Slade demanded.

  “Somewhere along what used to be a trade route to California,” said Durham. “They’re needing teams and another wagon. They tried to buy mine, and when I refused to sell, this Faro Duval wanted to hire the use of the teams and wagon for as far as they’re going.”

  “Damn it,” Slade said, “you should have sold ’em the teams and wagon. You could always take ’em back, after the ambush.”

  “I have my reasons for not selling the teams and wagon,” said Durham. “I said that I’d consider hiring the wagon and teams to them, and when they’ve unloaded their goods, go on to California from there.”

  “Well, at least you done somethin’ right,” Slade said. “Now track ’em down and make a deal. I want to know where they’re goin’, and why. It’s your rig, so insist on handlin’ the teams and wagon yourself.”

  Durham drained his bottle, got to his feet, and left the saloon. His relationship with Slade and his four unsavory companions had come about purely by chance. The outlaws had robbed a bank in Tucumcari, and had ridden their horses to death, just ahead of a ten-man posse. Durham’s wagon and approaching darkness was all that had saved them from a rope. Durham had closed the puckers of the wagon’s canvas, and the outlaws had hidden inside. By traveling all night, Durham had lost the posse, and had found himself part of a band of outlaws. At first it seemed a daring, hell-for-leather thing to do. But now he wasn’t so sure. Nearing thirty, he had lived by his wits since he was ten. Truthfully, he had acquired the wagon and teams in Amarillo, but only because the McCutcheon s
isters had staked him with the understanding he would take them with him to California. He had stood them up, and he had little doubt they’d be getting even. He was unsure only of the time and place, and having been in Santa Fe almost a week, he was becoming more uneasy by the day. The more he thought of Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon, the more the rugged country to the west appealed to him. Returning to his wagon, he mounted the box and drove to the mercantile. Faro, Tarno, Dallas, and Shanghai ceased what they were doing. Levi Collins came out of the store as Durham stepped down from the wagon box.

  “I’ve decided to let you use my wagon,” Durham said.

  “Bueno,” said Faro. “What are your terms?”

  “I’ll handle the teams,” Durham said, “and I want you to stake me with enough grub and supplies to get me to California.”

  “Collins,” said Faro, “you’re paying. What do you think?”

  “We can live with that,” Collins said.

  “It’s a deal, then,” said Faro. “Durham, these are my pards, Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver. Levi Collins, here, is the gent hiring our wagons.”

  “I’ll leave the wagon here for loading,” Durham said. “When you’re done, move it out with your own wagons. Where will you be for the night?”

  “In that vacant lot across from the wagon yard,” said Faro. “A couple of us will be standing watch all night.”

  “I’ll see you there in the morning,” Durham said.

  As Durham started back toward the business section, his worst fears became reality. On the opposite side of the street, Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon stepped out of a café and started down the boardwalk. Durham bolted for the first available sanctuary, which was a dress shop. Ignoring the startled old lady who owned it, he hurried out a back door into an alley. Repeatedly looking over his shoulder, he hurried back to the lodging house where he had taken a room. Gathering his few belongings, he slipped out the back door. Darkness was still four hours away, and keeping to narrow alleys and byways, he managed to reach the saloon where he had left Slade. This time, Durham didn’t bother ordering a drink, but went directly to Slade’s table.