Devil's Canyon

by Ralph Compton

  “You’re gettin’ mighty damn brave,” Slade said, his eye on Durham’s traveling bag.

  “I made the deal for the wagon,” said Durham. “We leave tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll be a few miles behind you,” Slade said. “Don’t waste no time findin’ out where they’re bound, and why.”

  Durham nodded. It galled him, having a two-bit outlaw talk down to him like he was a hired hand. He took a back alley route to the edge of town, and for the lack of a better place, took refuge in the shade of a thicket, resting his head on his traveling bag. When it was dark enough, he would join Faro Duval’s outfit, and sleep under the wagon.

  * * *

  “He’s a sure enough dude, if I ever saw one,” Shanghai said, when Durham had gone. “What in tarnation is he doin’ out here, with mules and a wagon?”

  “Likely one jump ahead of his past,” said Tarno. “Never seen a gambler yet that there wasn’t enough skeletons in his closet to start a graveyard.”

  “We don’t question his past, unless it catches up to him and begins causin’ us grief,” Faro said. “I doubt there’s a man on the frontier who hasn’t left somethin’ behind that he ain’t exactly proud of.”

  “Amen to that,” said Collins. “Whatever his reason for having teams and a wagon, and whatever his reason for being here, it’s our good fortune.”

  “I’m wonderin’ why he’s takin’ a wagon to California through such god-awful country as this,” Dallas said. “Hell, he could have gone north to Cheyenne and rode the old Union Pacific the rest of the way.”

  “Let’s get his wagon loaded next,” said Collins. “Then we’ll begin loading dynamite and ammunition.”

  The loading went smoothly, as Collins allowed the teamsters to pack the goods so that the loads wouldn’t shift on the inclines and down slopes. When all the wagons were loaded, Collins drove Durham’s wagon with the others to the lot across from the wagon yard.

  “This is next to our last chance at town-cooked grub for maybe a year,” Faro said. “Some of us will have to stay with the wagons while the others eat.”

  “The four of you go ahead,” said Collins. “When you return, then I’ll eat.”

  Faro and his three companions sought out a café and enjoyed a meal with plenty of hot coffee. It was just getting dark when they returned to the wagons, and found Durham there.

  “I decided to bunk with the rest of you,” the gambler said.

  “There’s grain for your mules in your wagon,” said Faro. “Go easy on it, as long as there’s decent graze.”

  Durham said nothing. His mind was awash with questions, the most bothersome one being how he was supposed to learn the purpose of this journey. If Slade and his outlaws ambushed the teamsters and seized the wagons, the most they could expect would be a few hundred dollars’ worth of supplies. Of course, the mules and wagons would add to the spoils, but Durham suspected that Slade had in mind something far more profitable. So far, Durham had been told nothing but the possible destination. For all he knew, this Collins was a Mormon, freighting supplies in for the winter, but there was something that didn’t quite fit. When Durham had left Tennessee in 1855, St. Louis newspapers had been full of tales of difficulties with Mormons along the Oregon Trail. They were an independent, self-sufficient clan, inclined to have their own teams and wagons. Turning his mind back to Faro Duval and his teamster partners, it didn’t seem likely they would have taken on loads of one-way freight through five hundred miles of desolate, mountainous terrain. Not unless there was more at stake than just teamster wages.

  “By God,” said Durham, under his breath, “Slade may just be right. There’s plenty I haven’t been told, and much more than meets the eye.”

  * * *

  Faro and his companions were up before dawn.

  “Our last chance for town-cooked grub, gents,” Faro said, “but we can’t all go at the same time. Somebody must stay with the wagons.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Durham, remembering that the McCutcheon sisters were somewhere in town. “I’ll stay with the wagons.”

  “So will I,” Levi Collins said. “I’ve some last-minute business, and I’ll attend to that when I go eat.”

  Collins sat down, his back to a wagon wheel, and lighted his pipe. Durham took up a similar position at the next wagon, his eyes on Collins.

  “I noticed a considerable supply of dynamite in my wagon,” Durham said.

  “A man’s always needin’ dynamite in mountain country,” said Collins. “Keep tight rein on the teams, and don’t take your wagon over no sudden drop-offs.”

  “You got supplies enough to last a year,” Durham said.

  “Yep,” said Collins. “This territory to the west is hell when the sun’s shinin’. When the snow flies, that ain’t no time to go lookin’ for grub.”

  “As unsettled as the country seems, I suppose there are Indians,” Durham said.

  “Yep,” said Collins. “Utes. Hostile as hell. They’ll be sendin’ a welcomin’ committee before we’re across the San Juans. You had any experience, Indian fightin’?”

  “Some,” Durham replied. “I was riding from Mobeetie, Texas, to Fort Worth. A band of Comanches attacked us in Indian Territory.”

  “You wasn’t alone, then,” said Collins.

  “No,” Durham said. “I was with a company of soldiers.”

  “No soldiers out here,” said Collins. “Likely not a white man between here and California, except maybe them Mormons, in northern Utah.”

  “I thought you might be one of them,” Durham said, growing bolder.

  “No,” said Collins. “My daddy was a Presbyterian, and in more civilized society, then I reckon I’d be one, too.”

  “You’re fortunate, finding teamsters willing to haul your goods,” Durham said. “Most of them have freighted in goods from back east, and are looking for loads that’ll take ’em home.”

  “Yes,” said Collins. “I have been fortunate. There are some good men on the frontier. But there are others who’ll take your pay, eat your grub, and then betray you at the drop of a hat. I’ve experienced both kinds.”

  Durham looked away, for he didn’t like the way the other man’s eyes bored into his own. Nothing more was said until the four teamsters returned.

  “Have the wagons ready to roll in half an hour,” Collins said.

  Durham set about harnessing his teams, aware that, compared to the others, he was slow and clumsy. Before Collins returned, a horseman approached. It was Slade, and he appeared not to have the slightest interest in the wagons. It was Slade’s way of reminding Durham he had made a commitment to the outlaws, and Durham swallowed hard. Once he took the trail with these teamsters, he became a Judas, bound to betray them without even a promise of the traditional silver. But if Faro Duval and his partners ever discovered his underlying purpose in traveling with them, he was more than a little certain they would kill him without a qualm. Yet if he failed to deliver the information Slade was demanding, he would be just as readily shot dead by the outlaws. It seemed his only other option was to remain in Santa Fe, or strike out on his own, neither of which was possible. His wagon was loaded with goods that didn’t belong to him, and if he ran like a scared coyote, he’d have only his horse and saddle, and a couple of changes of clothes. He dared not remain in Santa Fe, for he had no money for a stake at the gambling tables, and a pair of furious women were looking for him. Thanks to his involvement with the McCutcheon sisters, he’d been forced to leave Amarillo without plying his trade at the poker tables. He hadn’t gone hungry only because Slade and his gang had used some of their ill-gotten gains to buy grub. Grimly, Durham finished harnessing his teams. Silently he cursed Slade and his outlaws, the McCutcheon sisters, and finally, himself.

  * * *

  “You got more faith in that tinhorn cardsharp than I have,” said Hindes, one of the Slade outlaws. “Thanks to him and his wagon, we lost that damned sheriff’s posse. Right then, we should of rid ourselves of Durham.
Then we’d own the teams and wagon, and we wouldn’t be dependin’ on a varmint that’s likely to double-cross us, first chance he gits.”

  “Hindes,” Slade said, “don’t waste your time thinkin’, ’cause you ain’t equipped for it. If you hadn’t shot that bank teller, we might have escaped clean. Now, damn it, his family is offerin’ a thousand dollars’ reward, and the bank’s matchin’ it. Thanks to the telegraph, there’s already wanted posters on us here, and they’re likely everywhere else, too.”

  “So what if these wagon loads of supplies ain’t nothin’ more than settlers diggin’ in for the winter?” Withers said. “We’ll be ridin’ all over hell for nothin’.”

  “Yeah,” said Peeler. “What do you aim to do with five wagon loads of grub, if that’s all there is?”

  Kritzer laughed. “We could hole up in the mountains until the law gives up on us.”

  “I’ve been givin’ some sensible thought to this whole thing,” Slade growled, “which is a hell of a lot more than the rest of you can claim. With prices on our heads and every jackleg lawman on the frontier likely lookin’ for us, we can run but we can’t hide. There’s a chance we might escape to California, and that’s the direction these wagons are goin’. If Durham lets us down, or if they ain’t a damn thing but five wagon loads of grub to be had for our trouble, we’ll be halfway to California. What we got to lose?”

  “I reckon that makes sense,” said Hindes, “but I still don’t like this Durham. I say it’s foolishness, expecting him to work with us. Hell, he’ll sell us out.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Slade said. “What do you reckon them teamsters would do to our friend Durham if he spilled his guts and told ’em he’s one of us?”

  Withers, Peeler, and Kritzer laughed, and there was little Hindes could do, except join in.

  * * *

  Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon had found a lodging house near the stable where they had left their horses. The hostler had only stood there with his mouth open, for while the pair were unmistakably well-endowed females, they were dressed as men. Each of them had a revolver sagging from a tied-down holster, and before leaving their saddles, each drew a Winchester from a saddle boot. Leaving the Winchesters in their room, they went to a café to eat. They ignored the stares of men, settling down at a table.

  “You’d reckon this bunch of peckerwoods never seen a pair of females before,” said Mamie, “way they’ve aimed their eyeballs at us.”

  “Leastwise, not a pair like us,” Odessa replied. “Wait’ll tomorrow, when we invade the saloons.”

  “I’m wondering if a no-account gambler’s worth it,” said Mamie. “What spooked him, anyhow? I didn’t say nothin’ about him puttin’ a ring on my finger. Did you?”

  Odessa laughed. “No, but I kind of…implied…that you and me, it’s always been share and share alike. What more could a man want, for God’s sake?”

  “That’s likely what spooked him, then,” said Mamie. “He wasn’t man enough to keep up with either of us, and when you suggested we share the varmint, it purely scared hell out of him. There wasn’t enough of him to go around, and he figured it out. Like Ma used to say, the worst thing you can do is put a man’s pride to the test.”

  “Well, it was you that come up with the idea of the three of us travelin’ to California in a damn wagon,” Odessa replied, “and you that give him the thousand dollars.”

  “I said nothing about a wagon or teams of mules,” said Mamie heatedly. “I said get a nice buckboard and a team of horses.”

  Odessa laughed. “Among all his other faults, Durham don’t know a buckboard from a wagon, or a horse from a mule.”

  “He owes us a thousand dollars,” Mamie said, “and that’s worth trackin’ him down. We had nothin’ keepin’ us in Amarillo, with all the family gone except for us. We won’t be no worse off in California. Or even here.”

  The waiter had arrived, and was waiting patiently, regarding them in awe. Both women had long hair, black as a crow’s wing, and flat-crowned Stetsons were secured by leather thongs under the chin. The sleeves of their flannel shirts were rolled up to the elbows, and their arms, hands, faces, and necks were burned as brown as an old saddle. When Odessa suddenly spoke to him, the waiter jumped.

  “Youngster, bring us a pair of steaks medium-rare, some spuds, onions, some kind of pie, and plenty of coffee to wash it all down.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the startled waiter, hustling away.

  Men who had witnessed the arrival of Mamie and Odessa, and the intimidation of the waiter, grinned at one another, but nobody laughed.

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. August 3, 1870.

  Levi Collins mounted his horse and led out. Faro Duval was on the box of the first wagon, while Durham’s wagon was fifth. He ground his teeth in silent anger. While nobody had said anything, it was obvious his dubious abilities as a teamster were in question, and they weren’t going to chance his slowing down the caravan. He dared not fall behind, once they were in Ute country. Levi Collins dropped back, riding alongside Faro’s wagon, so they could talk.

  “We’ll be travelin’ northwest,” Collins said, “followin’ the Rio Chama for the first hundred miles.”

  “Plentiful water, then,” said Faro. “Is it like that all the way?”

  “Pretty much,” Collins replied. “There’s rivers a-plenty. We’ll be crossin’ the Dolores, the San Juan, and the Green. There’s numerous creeks and springs, as well. I reckon that’s one of the few good things that can be said for southern Utah. There’s plenty of water.”

  “Since you’ve been this way before,” said Faro, “you must have some idea as to when we can expect trouble from the Utes.”

  “Not really,” Collins replied. “They seem to favor the mountain passes of the San Juans, but when the trade route between Santa Fe and Los Angeles dried up, the pickings kind of played out. Some of the more aggressive bands have taken captives here along the Rio Chama, near Santa Fe.”

  “Captives?”

  “Yes. In the old days, before the Spanish gave up California, captives were often sold to captains of sailing ships,” said Collins. “Bandits and renegades from California bought the captives from the Utes, bartering horses and mules.”

  “California’s been part of the United States for more than twenty years,” Faro said. “Are they still that uncivilized?”

  Collins laughed. “I’ve never been to California, but I suspect there is much of it that hasn’t changed since the days of Spanish domination. I know from experience, however, that the Utes are hostile as ever. We’ve had to keep at least one man on watch both day and night, and they still caught us unawares a time or two.”

  “Then your partners won’t have accomplished much, while you’ve been gone.”

  “No,” Collins admitted. “In fact, we considered all of us going to Santa Fe, but these Utes know of the mine. While they couldn’t or wouldn’t work it, they might well have led claim jumpers to it. For a price, of course.”

  “They sound like a downright troublesome bunch,” said Faro.

  “They are,” Collins said. “They were bad enough, on their own, but they’ve absorbed the hellish ways of the no-account renegade whites they’ve dealt with over the years.”

  After two hours on the trail, Faro halted the caravan to rest the mules, and found, not to his surprise, that Durham’s wagon had fallen behind. He was waiting when Durham finally reined up his sweating teams.

  “We’ll be traveling through Ute country, Durham,” said Faro. “Lagging behind the rest of the wagons could cost you your scalp.”

  Durham laughed. “Your concern for my scalp is touching, Duval.”

  “Then I’ll just lay the cards on the table,” Faro said coldly. “I don’t care a damn for your scalp, but your wagon’s carryin’ a fifth of our goods. For that reason, I don’t aim to risk havin’ Utes burn the wagon and rustle the mules.”

  “It’s still my wagon and my mules,” Durham snarled, “and damn it, I won’t sta
nd for you talking down to me.”

  “Now, you listen to me, slick,” said Faro, his cold blue eyes boring into Durham’s. “As long as you hold up your end of the deal, I’ll respect your position as owner of these mules and the wagon. That means trailing with the rest of the wagons. Continue falling behind, endangering the wagon, the teams, and the freight, and you’re comin’ off that wagon box, permanent.”

  “By God,” Durham bawled, “you have no such authority.”

  “On the frontier,” said Faro, “authority belongs to the man who can back it up. Not a man in this outfit would fault me if I shot you dead and left your carcass for the coyotes and cougars. But I wouldn’t want you thinkin’ I’m that uncivilized. If you can’t or won’t keep that wagon up with the others, I’ll pull you off that box and have Levi Collins take the reins.”

  “The hell you will,” shouted Durham. “You agreed I could handle my own wagon.”

  “The hell I won’t,” said Faro, “and just so I don’t break my word, you won’t own the wagon or the teams. I’ll have Collins pay you a fair price. Then you can mount your horse and go anywhere you damn please, at a slow walk.”

  Faro turned and walked away. Durham’s hand rested on the butt of the Colt he kept beneath his coat, but the rest of the teamsters were watching him. Slowly he relaxed, and when Faro gave the order for the wagons to move out, Durham was careful not to allow his wagon to fall behind.

  * * *

  Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon created a sensation when they began invading saloons. The barkeeps were speechless, while some men stared and others laughed. After visiting three saloons, Mamie and Odessa had learned nothing. The fourth, however, was the one in which Durham had knocked two men unconscious. When Mamie and Odessa entered, their attention was drawn to a painting mounted behind the bar. It was of a reclining, naked female, leaving nothing to the imagination. The McCutcheons eyed it with interest, and it was Odessa who spoke.