Sidewinders:#3: Cutthroat Canyon

by Johnstone, William W.

  Back in the shadows, Skinner grunted disdainfully. “Justice! There’s no such thing. Only money and power…and death. Justice belongs to the man with the fastest gun.”

  “We’ll see about that one of these days,” Bo promised. “For now, let’s concentrate on Cordoba.”

  “All right,” Davidson said, his voice abrupt as if he had just reached a decision. “We’ll go along with what you say, Creel. We’ll even turn those peasants loose. But remember, I’ve got Lancaster and his machine gun. If they don’t follow orders, I might as well go ahead and slaughter all of them. They won’t be doing me any good.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Bo said—but in the back of his mind, he knew it might. It would all depend on what happened in the battle with Cordoba and the rest of the bandidos.

  He went on. “We’ll approach the town quietly, on foot. Men will have to carry the machine gun, because we can’t use the wagon. The bandits are celebrating in the village, so most of them will be getting drunk and sleepy by now. Cordoba plans to ride out to the canyon with his men at dawn to get your decision. If we hit them a half hour before dawn, they won’t be expecting it.”

  Bo glanced at the stars. “That gives us a couple of hours to get ready. Gather your forces here at the canyon mouth. I’ll be waiting for you. By then, Scratch will be up in the bell tower at the church with a rifle.”

  “I’m obliged for the vote of confidence,” Scratch said with a grin. “Hope I don’t get killed on the way and let you down.”

  “You won’t,” Bo said.

  “What about when it’s over?” Davidson asked.

  “You mean if we win and we’re still alive?”

  “Exactly.”

  Bo had thought about that possibility quite a bit, and he knew what he wanted to say to Davidson. “Then you take whatever gold you’ve got on hand and go. The mine belongs to the people of the valley now.”

  “What?” Skinner exclaimed. “Hell, no!”

  Davidson raised a hand to forestall any more protests from the skull-faced gunman. “Hold on.” He turned back to Bo. “We ride out free and clear? You don’t try to set the Mexican law on us?”

  “That’s right,” Bo said. “You must have made quite a bit of money off that mine already. You’ll come out all right, Davidson. You’ll still be a rich man. More than that, you’ll still be alive.”

  “There’s still a fortune in that canyon. I could be a lot richer man.”

  “You could also be a lot deader man,” Bo said.

  Davidson laughed. “Well, that’s true. All right. You’ve got a deal. You keep those greasers from mobbing us, and we’ll ride away.”

  “Boss!” Skinner said. “All that gold!”

  “My mind is made up,” Davidson said in a hard tone that brooked no argument. “Of course, we still have to live through the fight with Cordoba.”

  Skinner continued muttering to himself. Bo ignored the gunman and said, “Be here an hour before dawn. It’ll take us at least thirty minutes to get everybody in position for the attack.”

  “We’ll be here,” Davidson promised. He lifted a hand in farewell and faded back into the shadows.

  When Davidson and Skinner were gone, Scratch said quietly to Bo, “That varmint ain’t gonna keep the bargain he made. You know that, don’t you, Bo?”

  “I know it,” Bo said. “Once we’re finished with Cordoba, we’ll have another fight on our hands.”

  Scratch grinned. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

  “Well, there hasn’t been much in more than forty years since San Jacinto, has there?” Bo asked with a chuckle.

  CHAPTER 30

  Scratch headed off into the dark night a short time later, after the moon had set, leaving Bo to wait for Porter Davidson and the makeshift army the man was going to put together. He hoped that he was right and the three young women from the village would be able to persuade the men to fight on behalf of their former oppressor. Otherwise, even the machine gun might not be enough to tip the odds in their favor.

  Bo couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had happened. If he and Scratch hadn’t run into Davidson in El Paso and agreed to come down here in the first place, no one would have challenged the man’s iron-fisted rule of the valley, at least not effectively.

  On the other hand, if he and Scratch hadn’t killed so many of Davidson’s men, Davidson would have been better equipped to handle the threat of Bartolomeo Cordoba’s bandidos. But in the long run, whether Davidson or Cordoba emerged victorious from that battle, things would not have changed for the people of San Ramon. Giving them the chance for freedom made it all worthwhile.

  Fighting the good fight was always worth the risk.

  The stars continued their stately, almost indiscernible progression across the heavens, and about an hour before dawn, as the faintest tinge of gray began to appear in the eastern sky, Bo heard movement in the canyon. He tightened his grip on the rifle he held, just in case Davidson planned to try some sort of double cross.

  That wasn’t the case, however. Instead, Davidson called softly, “Creel!”

  “Right here,” Bo replied.

  Davidson stepped out of the canyon. Jim Skinner, Douglas, and Lancaster followed him. Behind them came Wallace and the few remaining supervisors from the mine.

  Then, to Bo’s surprise, he saw Alfred step out into the starlight. The young man clutched a rifle and looked very uncomfortable about doing so—but he was there, willing to fight, if not all that ready or able.

  Rosalinda, Teresa, Evangelina, and Luz followed Alfred out of the canyon, and with them came two dozen grim-faced men in peasant clothing—the workers from the mine. A few of them carried rifles, more had pistols, and a few were armed only with machetes or pickaxes. A pickax wielded by a strong man could be a fearsome weapon in close combat, if it came to that.

  Evangelina spotted Bo and ran over to him. She threw her arms around him and said, “Señor Bo! Alfred told us you were alive, but I still feared it was not so.”

  Feeling a little uncomfortable about having a nubile young woman embracing him like that, Bo said, “Yeah, I’m fine, and so is Scratch. Shouldn’t you ladies stay in the canyon until the fighting is over, though?”

  Teresa gave that familiar defiant toss of her head. “You can say that after everything you have seen? We have as big a stake in this fight as anyone, Señor Creel.”

  “This is true,” Luz added. She hefted the pistol in her hand. “All I ask is the chance to get one of those bandits in my sights.”

  Bo knew Luz well enough to know that wasn’t strictly true. She was still interested in the gold, too. But he said, “You’ll have the chance.” He looked the group over and then turned to Davidson. “Where’s the machine gun?”

  “It’s coming,” Lancaster answered instead. “Several of the lads are bringing it.”

  Sure enough, four of the men from the village came into sight a moment later. Two of them carried a crate each, probably full of ammunition, while the other two carried the gun itself, one at each end. The Gardner was still mounted on its tripod.

  “You’ll need to set up so that you can cover the plaza,” Bo told Lancaster. “Some of Cordoba’s men will already be there, and when the others hear the shooting, that’s probably where they’ll head when they come out of the buildings.” Bo raised his voice a little as he turned to the other men and went on. “The rest of us will work our way through the village, cleaning out the bandits as we come to them. It’s going to be bloody, dangerous work, and not all of us will survive. But if we can wipe out Cordoba and his men, the people of San Ramon can live in peace once again.”

  Judging from the sullen looks on the faces of the men, not all of them believed him. They had lived under the brutal oppression of Davidson and his supervisors for months, and now here they were, fighting to save the lives of the men they hated most. It was odd how things worked out sometimes, Bo thought. But he could also tell from the grim determination he saw that the men realize
d Cordoba was the greater danger—for the moment.

  He turned to the Englishman and said, “Lancaster, you and the men with the machine gun go on ahead. Be mighty careful about it, though. You can’t afford to make any noise and warn Cordoba’s men that something is about to happen.”

  Lancaster nodded. “Understood.” He held out his hand. “We’ve fought together, and we’ve battled against each other, Creel. I’m glad that for now we’re on the same side again.”

  Bo shook his hand and said, “So am I.” He didn’t harbor any illusions about what might happen after the battle with Cordoba’s men was over, though. At that point, Lancaster would be working for Davidson again—assuming that either of them was still alive.

  Lancaster and the men with the machine gun set off toward the village. Bo made sure that the others all understood what they were to do, and then they started toward San Ramon, too. The little army moved quietly through the graying darkness.

  Bo glanced toward the spot where the bell tower was located, even though he couldn’t see it. Scratch ought to be up there by now. Worry for his old friend and trail partner nagged at Bo’s mind. He trusted Scratch more than anyone else in the world, and had great confidence in the silver-haired Texan’s ability to take care of himself.

  But everybody’s luck ran out sooner or later. The odds always caught up with a fella.

  Not this morning, he thought, sending up a prayer to El Señor Dios. Not today.

  Instead of dragging, time now seemed to race by. Almost before Bo knew it, they were right outside the village. He had never been a general—or any other kind of officer—but he lined up his troops, splitting them so that they could attack on the flanks and the machine gun would cover the center. He moved along the ranks, pausing for an encouraging word here and there. He made sure that the women were in the rear, although Teresa argued with him about that. Evangelina and Rosalinda persuaded her to go along with Bo’s wishes.

  “Don’t worry,” Bo assured her. “You’ll get to fight.” He added one of Scratch’s favorite sayings. “I’d bet a hat on that.”

  When he came to Skinner, the skull-faced gunman sneered and said, “When this is over, Creel, we’ll settle things. Don’t forget.”

  “I’m not likely to,” Bo said.

  He moved on and nodded to Douglas. Quietly, the kid said, “If I’m alive in an hour, I’m riding away, Creel. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  “You’re not working for Davidson anymore?”

  “I’ve had enough. I’ve fought in range wars and railroad wars and just about every sort of war you can think of. But I don’t like what he did to the people down here. I’m tired of it stickin’ in my craw.”

  “Does Davidson know about that?”

  Douglas shrugged. “I don’t work for the man anymore. It’s none of his business. And for what it’s worth, Lancaster said he’s been thinking about it and feels the same way. He told me to tell you, if I got a chance.”

  “I’m obliged,” Bo said with a nod. He believed the kid. Even though they had tried to kill each other on several occasions, he was glad that he wouldn’t have to throw down on Douglas and Lancaster again, even though their defection from Davidson’s cause took him a little by surprise.

  When he reached Alfred, he put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and felt the trembling that went through Alfred’s body. “You’ll be fine,” Bo told him. “Just keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”

  “I…I never fought in any battles before.”

  “Maybe you’ll be lucky and you’ll never have to again.”

  That probably wouldn’t be the case, though, Bo thought. A man always had battles to fight, even when they didn’t involve shooting. The only sure way to avoid trouble was not to live. Bo didn’t figure it was worth it.

  He came to Porter Davidson, who gave him a curt nod and said, “A lot has happened since that first night in El Paso, hasn’t it?”

  “Seems like more than a couple of weeks ago.”

  “It certainly does. You’ve bested me, Creel. I’m not quite sure how you did it, but you have. I’ll be leaving Cutthroat Canyon and this valley a beaten man. I hope you’re happy.”

  Bo didn’t believe him any more now than he had earlier. But he just said, “I’ll be happy when these folks are free again. That’s all.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t wish you good luck?”

  Bo laughed. “I’d be shocked if you did.”

  He glanced at the sky, saw that it had lightened considerably more, and knew the time had come. He moved to the head of the left flank, raised his Winchester over his head so that everyone could see it, and then brought his arm forward in a sweeping signal to attack.

  The men on both flanks broke into a run. Bare feet and feet shod in rope sandals or boots pounded against the ground. Cordoba must have posted a few guards, but the men were sleepy or hungover or both, and obviously didn’t notice what was happening until the attackers reached the edge of the village. Then, a man in a sombrero with little decorative balls dangling from the brim lurched up from where he had been slumped in a doorway and yelled at the top of his lungs. He started to lift his rifle.

  On the dead run, Bo shot him in the chest. The slug knocked the bandido back through the doorway.

  More of the bandits stumbled out of the buildings. Those who had been curled up in their blankets in the plaza leaped to their feet to see what the commotion was about. Rifles and pistols began to pop, and the machine gun suddenly opened up with a chattering roar. Streams of lead played back and forth across the plaza with lethal results. Bandits went down, shredded into gory ruin by the pounding bullets.

  Cordoba’s men weren’t going to be defeated without a fight, though. Orange spurts of muzzle flame filled the predawn murkiness. Bullets whined around Bo’s head like angry, lethal insects. He emptied the Winchester; then, as one of the bandits rushed him, swinging a big knife, Bo rammed the barrel of the empty rifle into the man’s belly. When the bandit doubled over in pain, Bo brought the Winchester’s stock down on his head. The blow landed with the satisfying crunch of bone.

  Just then, pain lanced into his left calf. He stumbled, and that leg went out from under him. He knew he’d been hit, but he couldn’t tell how bad it was. He thought the wound was just a crease, but he couldn’t be sure about that and didn’t have time to check, because a wild-eyed bandit loomed over him, swinging the muzzle of a revolver toward him.

  As Bo looked up at his would-be killer, he saw the church’s bell tower behind the man. Just as the gun came even with Bo’s head, something flashed in the tower. The bandit’s head practically exploded as a .44-40 slug bored through his brain and burst out with a spray of blood and bone splinters. The dead man collapsed, landing next to Bo.

  That pretty much answered the question of whether or not Scratch had made it safely into the tower.

  Bo tossed the empty rifle aside, grabbed the gun out of the dead bandit’s hand, and struggled to his feet. He drew the Colt on his hip, and with an iron in each hand he limped forward, firing to the left and right at the bandidos who were running around in a near panic.

  A hoarse shout made him look around. He saw Alfred swinging an empty rifle like a club, smashing down the bandits who surrounded him like old Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Alfred stumbled and went down, though, as one of Cordoba’s men sunk a knife into his body. The man yanked the blade free, and was about to stab Alfred again when Bo put a .45 round through his brain.

  With a flash of skirts, Rosalinda came out of the clouds of powder smoke and dust that had begun to roll over the village. She had a six-gun in her hand, and taking the other bandits by surprise, she blasted them away and then stood protectively over Alfred like a mountain lioness defending her fallen mate.

  The machine gun fell silent. Bo didn’t know if it had jammed or was out of bullets, or if Lancaster had been hit. When it resumed its stuttering thunder a moment later, he knew that the Englishman had just been reloadin
g.

  He heard another sort of roar a second later, and wheeled around to see a tall, massively shouldered man with a bushy black beard laying waste to everyone around him with a pickax he must have picked up where one of the wounded mine workers had dropped it. Based on Alfred’s description, that was Bartolomeo Cordoba, Bo decided.

  He fired at the bandit leader, but the hammers of both guns clicked on empty chambers. The Colts were empty, and there was no time to reload because Cordoba had spotted him and now charged at him with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, swinging the pickax at Bo’s head as he did so.

  Bo dropped under the deadly blow and rolled into Cordoba’s legs. With another enraged roar, the bandit fell over him and toppled to the ground. Bo tried to roll away, but a huge, hamlike hand grabbed him and slung him back down. Cordoba’s crushing weight landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground, and the bandit leader’s thick fingers wrapped around Bo’s neck and began choking the life out of him.

  The empty revolvers had slipped out of Bo’s hands, so he couldn’t even use them as clubs. He tried heaving his body off the ground and throwing Cordoba to the side, but it was no use. The man was just too big and heavy. A red haze slid over Bo’s vision as Cordoba’s hands tightened more and more around his neck.

  But if Cordoba was using both hands to choke him, Bo suddenly realized, that meant he had dropped the pickax, just as Bo had dropped the guns. Bo began slapping desperately at the ground on both sides of him as his eyes began to bug out from their sockets due to the pressure Cordoba was putting on his throat. Sweat from the massive bandit’s face dripped into Bo’s face as Cordoba loomed over him.

  The fingers of Bo’s right hand brushed against something metal. He closed his hand around it, pulled it toward him, shifted his grip so that he held the pickax’s shaft just below the head. He swung it up with all the strength he had left, and with a solid thunk! the sharp end of the tool sunk for a depth of several inches into Cordoba’s brain.