“I don’t much cotton to bein’ around blastin’ powder,” Hansen muttered.
“If you want to keep your job, you’d better get moving.” Davidson’s flint-hard tone didn’t leave any room for argument.
Luckily, the shooting eased off as the six hired gunmen approached the powder shed. Guards were normally posted at the shed, so Skinner called, “Hey, up there! What the hell’s the shootin’ all about?”
“We caught somebody sneakin’ around,” one of the guards replied. The two men came closer, prodding a stumbling figure ahead of them at gunpoint.
The second man gave the captive a hard shove. The prisoner tripped and fell, sprawling on the rocky ground. “Look what we grabbed,” the guard said, gloating.
The moon had risen, and enough of its silvery glow penetrated the canyon for Bo, Scratch, and the others to be able to see the captive’s face as she lifted her head and glared up at them. Bo and Scratch tensed in surprise and alarm.
The person the guards had caught sneaking around the powder shed was none other than Teresa Volquez.
CHAPTER 17
Teresa was dressed in range clothes, as usual, and had a gunbelt strapped around her waist. The holster was empty at the moment.
“Damn little minx was gonna blow up the powder shed,” the first guard said. “She had matches and some fuse on her when we got hold of her.”
“We saw her before she could get the fuse going,” the second man added. “She ducked behind some rocks and started shooting at us. I was able to trade shots with her while Matthews slipped around and got behind her.”
“She put up a hell of a fight when I jumped her,” the first guard said, resuming the story with a note of pride in his voice. “I thought for a second I was gonna have to wallop her with my gun just to get her to settle down.”
Bo and Scratch stood there listening, waiting to see what was going to happen. If Teresa called out to them to help her, that would give away their connection with her and all hell would break loose. Bo was sure that Jim Skinner would use that as an excuse to try to kill both him and Scratch.
Teresa must have been smart enough to realize that, because she didn’t say anything. She just glared darkly at her captors, and her gaze held just as much venom when she directed it toward Bo and Scratch as it did when she looked at the other men.
“Who the hell is she?” Skinner demanded.
“I dunno. Some greaser bitch, that’s all I can tell you. But she’s gonna be sorry she tried to blow up the boss’s blasting powder. You can be sure of that.”
“Davidson’s gonna want to see her,” Skinner said. “A couple of you fellas get her on her feet. But hang on to her. We don’t want her gettin’ away.”
Before any of the other men could move, Bo and Scratch stepped forward, each of them reaching down to grasp one of Teresa’s arms. They lifted her to her feet, being none too gentle about it.
“All right, Señorita,” Bo told her. “You’re going to see the boss man. Do you habla inglés?”
“I speak your gringo tongue.” Teresa practically spat the words. “And if you do not let me go, you will be sorry!”
A harsh laugh came from Skinner. “I reckon you’re confused. We’re the ones who’ve got you, not the other way around.” He jerked his head toward the mine. “Bring her along.”
Teresa struggled in the grip of the two Texans, but they didn’t ease their holds on her. This had to look real, for all their sakes. Bo and Scratch represented her only chance of getting out of this, and she had to know that.
Bo wondered what in blazes she was doing here, and why she had tried to blow up the powder shed. Actually, the answer to that second question was pretty obvious. She had been trying to hurt Davidson and his mining operation any way she could. Setting off a big explosion would have shaken things up in Cutthroat Canyon in more ways than one.
Davidson would have been able to recover from the damage as soon as he had more powder freighted in from El Paso, but he couldn’t shake off the blow to his power and prestige quite so easily. It would have made him appear at least a little vulnerable—and vulnerability was one thing no tyrant could afford.
As they drew closer to the headquarters building, Davidson stepped forward with a lantern that someone had brought out to him. He lifted it so that its yellow glow fell over the men and their prisoner, and as he realized that the captive was a woman, he exclaimed, “What the hell!”
“We caught her tryin’ to blow up the powder shed, Boss,” one of the guards said. “When we spooked her, she started shootin’ at us.”
“Good job, good job,” Davidson commended them. He strode up to Teresa and held the lantern so that it was close to her face. She glared at him defiantly. He studied her angry features for a moment and then demanded, “Who are you?”
Teresa spat in his face.
Bo couldn’t have done anything to stop her, but he wished she hadn’t done that. Davidson’s free hand flashed up and cracked across her cheek in a hard slap that rocked her head to the side. She might have been knocked off her feet if the Texans hadn’t been holding her arms.
Bo heard a low growl coming from deep in Scratch’s throat. He looked over at his old friend and narrowed his eyes. That was all the warning he could risk, but it was enough. Scratch didn’t let go of Teresa and go after Davidson, as Bo had worried for a second that he might.
Davidson wiped the spittle off his cheek and then grinned. “You’ve got spirit, Señorita, I’ll give you that,” he said. “And more courage than most of your countrymen.” He frowned suddenly as he looked more closely at her. “There’s something familiar about you. Have we met?”
Bo knew that Davidson was recognizing the family resemblance between Teresa and Rosalinda. He wasn’t sure if it would do any harm for Davidson to know that the young women were sisters, but it might complicate matters more.
Teresa didn’t answer the question. She just stared at Davidson in stony silence. After a moment, Davidson chuckled. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”
“Give her to us, Boss,” one of the guards suggested. “We’ll work that stubbornness out of her.”
Bo knew what Teresa would be in for if Davidson turned her over to his men. They were experienced in mining operations, but more than that, they were all brutal, hard-nosed bastards who kept the workers from the village beaten down and broken in spirit. They would subject Teresa to even greater degradation than the women who worked in the brothel. In all likelihood, they would rape her repeatedly, perhaps even to the point of death.
“Sorry,” Davidson responded curtly. “You can’t have her.” Bo didn’t have a chance to be relieved by the decision, though, because Davidson continued. “At least not yet. I’m going to take care of this one myself.” He jerked his free hand toward the corral. “Take her over there and tie her wrists to the top rail.”
Scratch couldn’t restrain himself. “Boss, I ain’t so sure—”
“Do what I said, Morton,” Davidson snapped. “It’s time you see—it’s time everyone around here sees—that I won’t be trifled with.” He put his hand on Scratch’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “Do it.”
Bo and Scratch started toward the corral with Teresa. Bo bent his head toward her and said in a low voice, “When you get a chance, run into the barn and find a horse. You’ll have to ride bareback. Scratch and I will cover your escape.”
“Davidson will kill you,” Teresa whispered.
“We’ll take our chances. We can’t stand by and let him go ahead with whatever he’s got planned for you.”
Bo thought he knew what Davidson’s intentions were. That hunch was confirmed when Davidson turned and called, “Alfred!”
The young man had followed the others out of the headquarters building. “Yes, sir?” he asked nervously.
“Go inside and get my whip.”
“Sir…”
“Do what I told you, Alfred.” Davidson turned to Lancaster and handed him the lantern. “Hold this. R
aise it good and high so I can see what I’m doing.”
Bo glanced around, and saw troubled frowns on the faces of Lancaster and Hansen. They didn’t like where this was headed. But Lancaster shrugged and took the lantern. “You’re the boss, as you Americans say,” he told Davidson.
“And don’t you forget it,” Davidson said.
Bo and Scratch had reached the corral fence. A coiled lariat hung on one of the posts. Bo took it down and used his barlow knife to cut a couple of short lengths from it. He muttered to Teresa, “We’ll tie your wrists so that you can slip right out of the bonds.”
“No!” she breathed. “Let him do his worst. I can stand it.”
“Maybe you can, Señorita,” Scratch said, “but I don’t reckon we can.”
They had steered Teresa toward the big gate, and in fact it was to the gate that they loosely tied her wrists after lifting her arms over her head. When Bo lowered his hand, he brushed it against the latch, seemingly accidentally, and knocked it open.
“Rip her shirt off,” Davidson called.
Bo and Scratch looked back at him. Alfred had brought him a long bullwhip, and with a flick of his wrist Davidson sent the length of it snaking out. Another flick made it coil at his feet and resemble a serpent even more.
Hansen spoke up. “This don’t sit all that well with me, Boss—”
“Shut up,” Skinner broke in. “Whatever Mr. Davidson’s got in mind, I want to watch it.”
“It’ll be entertaining, I can promise you that,” Davidson said with an ugly grin. At this moment, with the lantern light washing over his face and the whip in his hand, he looked like Satan himself, Bo thought, nothing at all like the affable businessman he had seemed to be back in El Paso. With that evil smile of anticipation, Davidson went on. “I’m going to flay the skin right off her naked back. Then the rest of you can have her…if you still want her.”
He turned toward the corral, moving his wrist so that the whip hissed and writhed. His smile disappeared and his face darkened with rage as he said, “You still haven’t torn her shirt off? Strip her, damn you, and do it now!”
“When I shove the gate open,” Bo told Teresa, “pull your hands loose and get in the barn as fast as you can.”
“Señor Creel, I am sorry—”
“No time for that now,” Bo said. He gave the gate a hard push. “Go!”
As the gate swung open, the Texans whirled toward Davidson and the other men. Bo didn’t know who would be faster in a showdown, although he suspected that Skinner could shade both him and Scratch. But in this case, they took the others by surprise, so Bo’s Colt and Scratch’s twin Remingtons were out and leveled before anybody else had a chance to slap leather.
“Nobody move,” Bo snapped. “We’ll kill the first man who reaches for a gun.”
He heard the swift footsteps behind him and knew that Teresa had pulled loose and was running into the barn.
Davidson stared at the Texans in surprise for a second before fury took over. “Kill them!” he screamed as he lashed the whip at his feet. “Shoot them both and stop the girl!”
“Better think about it,” Bo advised. “Scratch will kill the first man who tries it. I’ll kill you, Davidson.”
The mine owner threw the whip down and pointed a trembling finger at the Texans. “I’ll have both your hides for this!” he cried. “You…you…” He was so angry he couldn’t talk. He just started sputtering instead.
A man like that gets a little money and power and thinks he owns everything and everybody. Davidson himself had said those exact words about Little Ed Churchill back in the Birdcage, on the violent night that had started all this, Bo recalled. And now Davidson was a living example of that sentiment. He was so furious at the very idea anyone would challenge his orders that he was shaking with rage.
Bo heard hoofbeats, and knew that Teresa had managed to get on a horse, open the rear door of the barn, and ride out that way. If she could reach the mouth of the canyon, she could get into the valley and slip away under cover of darkness.
“Five hundred dollars to any man who kills Creel and Morton!” Davidson said. “No, a thousand!”
“Each?” Skinner drawled.
“No…but I’ll throw in another thousand for any man who kills them and brings back that girl!”
Bo kept a close eye on Skinner. The skull-faced gunman was supremely confident in his gun-handling skill, Bo knew. Skinner was probably figuring the odds on getting lead into both of them before they could get lead into him.
“Do it!” screamed Davidson.
Skinner finally shook his head. “Man can’t outdraw a gun that’s already drawn, not even me.”
“Five thousand!”
“Now you’re startin’ to tempt me…”
“By God, I’ll take it!” Hansen said. He lunged to the side, clawing at the gun on his hip as he did so.
Bo wished the big Swede hadn’t done it. Hansen wasn’t a bad sort for a hired gun.
But he wasn’t nearly fast enough either. His revolver had just started to clear leather when the Remington in Scratch’s left hand roared.
As the .44 round punched into Hansen’s beefy torso, Lancaster slung the lantern toward Bo and Scratch. Bo fired at Davidson, as he had promised, but the bullet struck the lantern in midair and shattered it. Flaming kerosene sprayed through the air, lighting up the scene in a hellish glare. Bo ducked away from it, and as he did he saw that Davidson had thrown himself to the ground. Davidson rolled over and came up with the whip in his hand again. Its weighted tip leaped out toward Bo.
The whip struck Bo’s hand and bit deep like the snake it resembled. The pain as a gash opened up in the back of his hand made Bo drop the Colt. Smoke and flame continued to erupt from the muzzles of Scratch’s Remingtons as he called to Bo, “Head for the barn! I’ll cover you!”
If they could reach their horses, they stood a chance of getting out of this ruckus. A slim chance, to be sure, but better than nothing. Lancaster and Douglas had their guns out by now and were blazing away, firing through the flames that still rose from the spilled kerosene. Bo felt the wind-rip of a slug past his ear as he darted toward the barn.
Then Scratch grunted in pain and went to one knee, and Bo knew he couldn’t run out on his trail partner. Not after more than forty years of friendship and riding together. He wheeled around and saw that Scratch had dropped his left-hand gun. That hand was now pressed to Scratch’s side, with crimson streams welling between the fingers.
Bo dived for the fallen Remington and scooped it up with his left hand. He knelt beside Scratch and felt the gun buck against his palm as he triggered it.
“Looks like this is the end of the trail, old-timer,” Bo said over the roar of guns.
“Yeah,” Scratch said. “Wish we could’ve helped those folks—”
That was when a giant fist slammed against the side of Bo’s head, knocking him backward. He didn’t know it when he hit the sandy ground in front of the open corral gate. Black oblivion had already claimed him.
CHAPTER 18
Bo would have bet that he’d never wake up again. But after an unknowable time, the darkness that surrounded him slowly began to fade. Like a long night giving way to dawn, awareness seeped back into his brain.
Consciousness brought with it thundering pain, and that dull, aching throb was welcome because it meant that he was still alive, Bo realized. If he’d been dead, he wouldn’t feel anything.
The pain in his head wasn’t the only one. Agony gripped his arms and shoulders, too, and every time he took a breath, what felt like sharp knives jabbed him somewhere inside. Gradually, he figured out that his arms were fastened somehow above his head, and he was hanging from them with all his weight being borne by his wrists.
The darkness continued to fade, and as it did so, a blindingly powerful light replaced it. Bo squeezed his eyelids shut as hard as he could, but the light grew more and more intense despite his efforts. It increased the pain in his head as well, until fin
ally it was so bad he couldn’t help but gasp.
“Bo! Bo! Thank God you’re alive, old son!”
The voice was fuzzy and distorted, but Bo recognized it anyway. He ought to, after all these years. Even though it pained him considerably to do so, he forced his eyes open, wincing as the bright light struck them with even more force. He blinked rapidly as his vision tried to adjust.
After what seemed like an eternity of eye-searing brilliance, Bo was able to see well enough to tell that he was still in Cutthroat Canyon. Sharp, scraping pains in his back as his body shifted slightly told him that he was hanging against the canyon’s rocky wall.
Even though the movement made the world spin crazily around him, he turned his head toward the sound of Scratch’s voice as the silver-haired Texan said, “Are you all right, Bo?” A hollow laugh came from Scratch, followed by, “That’s a hell of a dumb question, ain’t it?”
Bo’s sight was still blurry, but he could see well enough to make out his friend and partner. Scratch hung by his arms, too. His wrists were tied together with rope, and that rope was looped over a spike of some sort that had been hammered into the canyon wall. Scratch’s bare feet dangled about ten inches off the ground.
Scratch wore only his trousers. He had been stripped to the waist, and mottled bruises from a terrible beating covered his torso. His face was a mass of bruises and dried blood. Blood that had flowed from a wound of some sort had caked into a dark brown patch on his left side.
Bo recalled that Scratch had been shot during the fight with Davidson’s men in front of the corral. From the looks of the injury, the bullet had plowed a furrow in Scratch’s side, not a serious wound other than the loss of blood.
“You…look like…hell,” Bo managed to say.
“Reckon I could say the same thing about you.” Scratch was more alert and had been conscious longer.
“I take it I’m…hung up like a side of beef, too.”
“Yep. They whaled on us good and proper, then hung us up here to cook in the sun.”
Sidewinders:#3: Cutthroat Canyon Page 13
