Sidewinders:#3: Cutthroat Canyon

by Johnstone, William W.

  Bo frowned. “You’re saying it was a bunch of kids who attacked these wagons?”

  “I don’t know about the rest, but those two sure were.”

  Bo looked toward the top of the mesa. “Now I’m mighty curious about the bandits Skinner and the others killed up there.”

  “Yeah, so am I. Reckon we ought to ask him about them?”

  “I think maybe we should,” Bo said.

  They walked over to the other guards, who were getting ready to ride again while some of Wallace’s men unhooked the dead mules from their harness. Having only four mules pulling each wagon would slow down the pace, but there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  “We’ve got a question for you, Skinner,” Bo said.

  Skinner gave them a cold look. “I don’t answer to you two, Creel.”

  “Scratch and I still want to know if you got a good look at those bandits up on the mesa?”

  “Go to hell,” Skinner snapped as he turned away.

  Scratch started to step forward, his face taut with anger. Bo put a hand on his arm to stop him from confronting Skinner. They didn’t want this to turn into a gunfight.

  Lancaster spoke up, answering the question that Skinner had refused to. “We checked the bodies to make sure they were all dead,” he said. “They were. We didn’t have to finish off any of them.”

  “How old were they?” Bo asked.

  “Why…I don’t really know,” Lancaster said with a puzzled frown. “I don’t know about you, old boy, but I don’t really make a habit of stopping to inquire a man’s age when he’s shooting at me.”

  “Nobody would expect you to.” Bo jerked a thumb toward the pair of bandits who’d been shot off their horses. “But those two were just kids, and we were wondering if that was true of the ones who were up on the mesa.”

  Lancaster shrugged. “I’m afraid I didn’t pay that much attention. You’d have to go take a look for yourself, if you’re that interested.”

  “Maybe we’ll just do that,” Scratch said.

  Skinner turned toward them again. “You do and I’ll tell Davidson that you were neglectin’ your job ’cause you were worried about some damn greasers. What do you think he’ll do then?”

  “It won’t take long to check it out,” Bo said. “How did you manage to wipe all of them out so fast anyway?”

  Jackman grinned and provided the answer to that question. “There’s a trail up the back side of that mesa. They should’ve put a guard on it, the damn fools. We made it up there and were practically on top of ’em before they knew what was goin’ on. And there were only three of ’em. It wasn’t much of a fight.”

  Skinner turned to Wallace. “You got those damn dead mules unhitched? We need to get movin’ again. This is already gonna slow us down.”

  “We’re ready to roll,” Wallace replied stiffly. He was pale from losing so much blood, but didn’t seem to be on the verge of passing out.

  “All right, then.” Skinner swung up into his saddle and motioned for the other men to do likewise. “Let’s get this gold to El Paso.”

  Bo and Scratch mounted up as well, but instead of falling in behind the wagons, they started riding slowly toward the mesa.

  Skinner saw that and called after them, “Damn it, stop wastin’ your time! Do what you’re supposed to, or you can forget about workin’ for Davidson! I’ll tell him it’s either you two or me!”

  “Do what you have to do, Skinner,” Bo said over his shoulder.

  “And so will we,” Scratch added.

  They heeled their horses into a trot and left the cursing Skinner behind. They reached the main trail and started up. By the time they made it to the top of the mesa, the wagons were lumbering past.

  “You think they’ll get jumped again before they get to El Paso?” Scratch asked.

  Bo shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s doubtful. The bandits who got away know now that the wagons are well guarded. Anyway, we’ll catch up in a little while. I don’t care whether Skinner wants us along or not. We’ll finish the trip.”

  Scratch nodded. “That’s what I was thinkin’. I don’t like to break my word…even if the fella I gave it to turns out to be a low-down skunk.”

  It took them only a moment to find the bodies sprawled behind some rocks at the edge of the mesa. The men wore rough clothes more suited for farming than for robbing gold wagons. Two had fallen on their sides when Skinner and the others cut them down. The third man lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the deep blue, cloudless sky.

  “Son of a bitch,” Scratch breathed. “That hombre can’t be more’n sixteen years old.”

  “Lancaster must’ve known that, too,” Bo said. “He just didn’t want to admit that they’d slaughtered a bunch of kids.”

  “Kids who were doin’ their best to kill the fellas on those wagons,” Scratch reminded him as Bo dismounted. “That bullet crease in Wallace’s side is proof of that.”

  Bo shrugged as he handed the dun’s reins to Scratch. “Yeah, there’s no denying that. A bullet can kill you just as dead no matter how old the finger is that pulls the trigger.”

  He used a foot to roll the other two bodies onto their backs as well. Not surprisingly, those two bandits were very young, too, not out of their teens.

  “Varmints hadn’t even been shavin’ long,” Scratch commented, the grim tightness of his voice revealing that what he and Bo had discovered bothered him, too, despite the circumstances.

  Bo nodded and hunkered on his heels next to the bloody corpses. Each of them had numerous gunshot wounds. Skinner and the others had riddled them mercilessly with lead.

  The sudden scrape of boot leather on the rocks behind them made Bo start to straighten up. His hand started toward his holstered Colt.

  “Don’t move, damn you!” a shrill voice cried. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you both!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Bo finished straightening up, but kept his hand well away from his gun. On the bay, Scratch kept his hands half lifted as he used his knees to make the horse turn toward the newcomer. Both Texans had heard the fear and panic in the voice, and knew that someone so spooked might be quick to pull the trigger.

  Not only that, they had recognized the tone as female. Sure enough, they saw as they swung around, it was a young woman who stood there pointing a revolver at them. The gun barrel wavered back and forth as her hand trembled. Whether that was from her fear or the weight of the weapon or a combination of both, Bo didn’t know and didn’t care. He just didn’t want to get shot.

  “Hold on, Señorita,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. “My partner and I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “Liar!” she cried. “Filthy liar! I saw you shooting at my friends.”

  “You mean you’re part of this bunch of bandits?” Scratch asked.

  That probably wasn’t the best way to phrase the question, Bo thought as the young woman jerked the barrel of the gun toward Scratch. But that pulled the gun away from him, and since it looked like she was about to shoot Scratch, Bo lunged forward, diving at her.

  She let out an alarmed yell, yanked the gun back toward Bo, and jerked the trigger. She shot high, though, as most amateurs did when they hurried, and Bo had already left his feet. The blast slammed against his ears, but the bullet whistled harmlessly over his head. He wrapped his arms around the young woman’s hips as he crashed into her and bore her over backward.

  She cried out again, this time in pain, as she hit the rocky ground with Bo on top of her. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it enough to make her drop the gun without actually injuring her. By that time, Scratch was off his horse, and leaned down to snatch the weapon from the ground so that the young woman couldn’t get her hands on it again.

  Well aware that he was lying on top of a gal young enough to be his granddaughter, Bo pushed himself to his hands and knees and stood up quickly. He stepped back, picked up his hat, which had come off when he tackled her, and said, “I’m sorry I had to do that
, Señorita. Couldn’t let you shoot my pard here, though, or me for that matter.”

  The young woman rolled onto her side, put her hands over her face, and began to sob. The grief-stricken spasms wracked her body. Bo and Scratch looked at each other, and Scratch shrugged as if to say that this was Bo’s problem.

  “You’re the one who’s such a hand with the ladies,” Bo said.

  “Yeah, but my saddle’s older’n this one,” Scratch pointed out. “Gals don’t respond to my charms until they got a mite more seasonin’.”

  “Well, you can help me help her up anyway.”

  They reached down and each of them took hold of an arm. “Come on, Señorita,” Bo urged as she began to struggle against them. “We just want to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere away from here to do it.”

  They lifted her to her feet despite her struggles and led her away from the bodies. She stumbled, and would have fallen if Bo and Scratch had not had hold of her. When they were well away from the dead men, Bo stopped and said, “Why don’t you start by telling us your name?”

  “Wh-why do you care?” she asked through her sniffles. “You have to know my name before you rape me and kill me?”

  “Doggone it!” Scratch exclaimed, clearly shocked. “Why would we want to do a terrible thing like that?”

  “You work for him. That is what his men do. They rape the women and kill everyone who opposes them, men, women, and children alike.” Growing steadier on her feet, she gave a defiant toss of her head and went on. “I may be a woman, but I can fight like a man! So you’ll be better off if you just go ahead and kill me!”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Bo said. The young woman’s words made him feel hollow inside, because they confirmed all his suspicions that had been growing stronger the past couple of days. Porter Davidson wasn’t the man he had appeared to be at first. He was a lot worse.

  “You were shooting at my friends,” she said again. She wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “For all I know, it was your bullets that killed some of them.”

  Bo couldn’t argue with that. What she said was true. He told her, “You’re right. But we didn’t know what the situation was. And your amigos were shooting at us, too.”

  “Have you been to San Ramon?”

  “Where?” Scratch asked.

  Bo guessed, “You mean the village in the valley outside Cutthroat Canyon?”

  “Sí. The village is called San Ramon.”

  “We’ve been there,” Bo said.

  “Then how could you not know the sort of man Señor Davidson is? Did you not see how the people of San Ramon cower in fear of their lives?”

  “We saw,” Bo said, his voice grim. “And we figured something was wrong. We just hadn’t had a chance yet to talk to anybody and find out exactly what’s going on around here.”

  She gave him a contemptuous look. “And what difference would it have made if you had known? Would you not have continued to take Davidson’s money to terrorize my people?”

  “We damn sure—I mean, we darn sure wouldn’t,” Scratch said. “Fact of the matter is, ma’am, we already figured somethin’ was wrong around here, and we were plannin’ to get to the bottom of it when we got back from El Paso.”

  The young woman looked back and forth between them. Bo could see in her eyes that a part of her wanted to believe them, but she was too afraid, too embittered, to embrace that hope. She couldn’t bring herself to trust them.

  He reached down to his hip and palmed out his Colt. The young woman flinched when she saw what he was doing, but her look of fear changed to one of confusion when he flipped the gun around and extended it to her, butt first.

  “I don’t think you’re going to believe us until you see for yourself that we’re telling the truth,” Bo declared. “Take the gun. Do what you want with it. Nobody’s going to stop you.”

  Scratch saw what Bo was doing. He had tucked the young woman’s gun behind his belt, but he pulled his Remingtons, turned them around, and offered them to the young woman as well. “We’re almighty sorry, Señorita. If we hurt any of your pards, it truly was because we didn’t know for sure what’s been goin’ on around here. But I reckon we know now, and we want you to trust us when we tell you we aim to put a stop to it.”

  “That is,” Bo added, “if you’re telling us the truth about Davidson.”

  Anger flared in the young woman’s dark eyes. She snatched the Colt away from him and lifted it with both hands, earing back the hammer as she did so. Bo just looked at her unflinchingly as she pointed the revolver at him.

  She didn’t pull the trigger. After a moment, she lowered the gun and let down the hammer again. “How did you know I would not kill you?” she asked.

  Bo shrugged. “I figured you could tell we mean you no harm. And that we didn’t know for sure Davidson was as bad as you’ve painted him.”

  “If we’d known,” Scratch said, “you can bet a hat we never would’ve signed on to work for him.”

  “So why don’t you fill us in?” Bo suggested as he took his Colt out of her limp hands. “You can start by telling us your name.”

  She swallowed hard. “It is Teresa…Teresa Volquez.”

  “All right, Señorita Volquez. It is Señorita, isn’t it?”

  Teresa nodded. “Sí.”

  “Why don’t you go on back down off this mesa with my partner, Señorita, and then we’ll talk in a little while. First…I reckon we’ve got some burying to take care of.”

  Bo thought that Teresa Volquez might take off if they left her alone, but if she did it would have to be on foot. The men who had fled had taken all the horses with them. Instead, Teresa found a tiny bit of shade at the base of the mesa, and sat down to wait while Bo and Scratch dug graves and then brought the bodies down on the dun and the bay. They also used the horses to fetch the two corpses that lay out in the open near where the wagons had been stopped earlier.

  Digging graves in the stony ground was difficult, and the Texans weren’t as young as they used to be. Both men were drenched with sweat by the time they were finished with the grim chore. The graves weren’t quite as deep as Bo would have liked either, but there were plenty of rocks along the base of the mesa that could be piled up to make cairns over the holes in the ground.

  “I reckon we’ve given up any thought of catch-in’ up to the wagons,” Scratch said as they worked on those cairns.

  “Yes, considering what the girl’s already told us, I think that’s true,” Bo said. “I’ve heard enough to know that I don’t want to work for Davidson anymore.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Find out just how bad things really are in that valley. Then we’ll decide.”

  “From the sound of it, those folks could use some help.”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Teresa joined them beside the graves, making the sign of the cross and muttering prayers for the souls of the young men who had been killed there today. Then she and Bo and Scratch walked back over into the shade, and Bo said, “Start from the beginning and tell us everything you know about Davidson.”

  “You mean when he came to San Ramon and murdered Don Alviso, who owned the mine in Cañon del Despiadado? Or when he forced the men of the village to abandon their crops and work in the mine instead? Or perhaps when he took the young women and forced them to…to degrade themselves with his men? These are the things you want to know about Señor Davidson?”

  Scratch said, “Looks like we were wrong about the fella, Bo.”

  Bo nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. Señorita Volquez, is there a rifleman in the bell tower of the church in San Ramon?”

  “Sí. He keeps watch over the valley, and anyone who tries to escape, or to fight back against any of Davidson’s men, the man in the tower can kill them with one shot.” Her voice caught a little. “I…I have seen it happen.”

  Scratch shook his head. “That dirty son of a gun.”

  “What about
the holdups?” Bo asked. “Were you and your friends just after the gold?”

  “We thought that if we made it impossible for Davidson to ship his gold to El Paso, he might abandon the mine and leave us alone.” Teresa gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “We should have known better. He just brought in even more hired killers.” She looked pointedly at the Texans.

  “We were told that his gold shipments were being robbed by bandits,” Bo said. “You’ve got to admit, that’s the sort of thing that can happen down here.”

  “Of course,” Teresa said with a shrug. “But in this case, we were simply striking back at him the only way we could think of.”

  “Were all of you from San Ramon?”

  “Sí. There were a dozen of us who managed to slip out, one at a time. Now…” She struggled to get the words out. “Now there are only a handful left alive.”

  Scratch asked, “What did you do with the gold you took before?”

  “It’s hidden in the mountains. We thought that…perhaps if we had enough…we could go to El Paso and hire some gunmen of our own.” Teresa grimaced. “A foolish hope, I know. Anyone we could have found would have come down here and simply stolen the gold from us, or gone to work for Davidson instead. We cannot hope to stop him now.”

  “Now, don’t go getting ahead of yourself,” Bo said. “How come you were riding with the men who escaped from the village?”

  She tossed her head again, making her long, midnight-black hair swirl around her shoulders. She was dressed like a man, in whipcord trousers and a faded shirt, with a flat-crowned hat that hung behind her back by its chinstrap and a gunbelt around her waist. There was no mistaking her femininity, though.

  “You think a woman cannot fight?” she asked, her dark eyes blazing.

  “I’ve lived long enough to learn a few things,” Bo said with a smile, “including that most women can do anything they set their minds to. I was just curious how it came about.”