As Esteban Gonzalez had predicted, Hanson was reluctant to turn loose any of the money he had collected from the Texans the day before. “When you make arrangements for accommodations, you’re sorta bound by ’em,” he claimed. “You wouldn’t have wanted me to give you your money back last night and tell you you couldn’t stay here after all, or your horses, either.”
“We’d understand if there was a good reason,” Scratch said.
“And we said you could take out whatever we owe for the grain you gave our horses,” Bo added. “So you won’t be losing any money on the deal.”
Hanson gave a put-upon sigh and dug a hand into the pocket of his overalls. “I’ll take out for feed and one night’s lodgin’ for the horses, since it was so late when you picked ’em up,” he suggested. “That’s fair, ain’t it?”
It really hadn’t been that late when they got their horses, but Bo nodded anyway and said, “Fine.” He was ready to get started on the search for the Devils of Deadwood Gulch, and he knew Scratch was, too.
When they had settled with the liveryman, they rode out of town the same way they had ridden in, heading west along the gulch where Deadwood Creek flowed. Roughly paralleling it to the south lay Whitewood Gulch, formed by the creek of the same name. Four years earlier, miners had thronged to Whitewood Gulch as well and some of them had found gold there. Several successful mines had been established. Small camps had sprung up all over both gulches and the surrounding hills, but they had died out gradually as the town of Deadwood had grown in both size and importance until it was the main supply point for the entire area, as well as the center of banking and commerce for this part of the Black Hills.
The three riders passed by Chloride’s shack and continued on up the gulch. The old-timer pointed out some small mining claims that were still being worked and said, “Most of the color’s done gone from down here. The big mines are farther up. That’s why it’s a pretty good run into town when they want to bring their gold in. Lots of places betwixt here and there where the Devils can hide to ambush the shipments.”
“Why don’t the mines cooperate and go in together on their shipments?” Bo asked. “They could assemble a little wagon train and hire a couple of dozen guards.”
Chloride nodded. “Yeah, that might work, but it’d mean they’d have to get along, and they don’t. Mining’s been such a cutthroat business around here for so long, none of the owners trust each other. So they’re tryin’ to go it alone as long as they can.”
“There’s an old sayin’ about cuttin’ off your nose to spite your face,” Scratch pointed out.
Chloride laughed. “Don’t I know it! But that’s the way it is in these parts.”
So far during the ride, they hadn’t met any wagons or even anyone on horseback. They could see smoke from chimneys and hear work going on at some of the claims they passed, but the trail seemed to be deserted. Bo commented on that.
“Folks are scared to ride out here,” Chloride explained. “The Devils have killed more’n a dozen men so far. Nobody wants to be next.”
“Yes, but have they ever jumped any solitary travelers ?” Bo asked. “Or do they just rob stagecoaches and gold wagons?”
“Well . . . as far as I know, they’ve only gone after the coaches and the wagons. But maybe any lone pilgrims they massacred just ain’t never been found. There are plenty of places in these hills where a body could disappear for good.”
“They’ve never tried to hide their other victims, have they?”
Chloride shook his head. “Nope.”
Scratch put in, “Seems to me like they want folks to find the poor varmints who run afoul of ’em. Otherwise what’s the point of carvin’ pitchforks in their foreheads?”
“Maybe so,” Chloride said. “I don’t know how some bunch of dang desperadoes thinks, because I ain’t one of ’em! All I know is that folks are mighty leery about ridin’ this trail these days because they don’t want to wind up sportin’ one of those bloody pitchforks!”
“Take it easy,” Bo advised. “We believe your story about the robbery, remember? That’s why we asked you to come with us. And you agreed to it. Aren’t you worried about riding this trail, Chloride?”
The old-timer snorted in contempt. “It’ll take more than them Devils to scare me off. I’ve seen and done plenty of things in my life, boys, and I ain’t afraid to die.”
“Neither am I,” Scratch said, “but I wouldn’t mind postponin’ it as long as I can.”
“Well, that’s just common sense.” Chloride leveled an arm and pointed. “We’re comin’ to the spot where those masked rannihans jumped the wagon yesterday. See the way somebody dragged that deadfall close to the trail up yonder? That’s why the guards and I worried the Devils might be hidden behind it.” He waved a hand toward the trees on the other side of the creek. “But they were lurkin’ over there instead. Mighty clever of ’em.”
“Where did the wagon turn over?” Bo asked. Deadwood’s undertaker, John Tadrack, had been out here with his helpers and collected the bodies of the three slain guards, and somebody, probably from the Argosy Mine, had hauled off the wrecked and looted wagon, as well.
“Right there,” Chloride answered, pointing again. “You can see some of the scrape marks in the dirt.”
“Where did you land when you got thrown out?” Scratch wanted to know.
“Them bushes there to the left of the trail.”
“Let’s take a closer look,” Bo said as he reined his horse to a halt.
The three men dismounted. Scratch handed his reins to Bo, then hunkered on his heels and closely studied the ground all around the spot where the wagon had crashed.
“If this is where the wagon turned over, this is where the Devils unloaded the gold from it as well, isn’t it?” Bo asked the old driver.
Chloride nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I seen most of it from where I was hidin’ there in the brush.”
Scratch said, “The undertaker brought his wagon and helpers out here, and they all tramped around a heap. Same for whoever came after the gold wagon. There are too many tracks of men and horses both, Bo. I can’t make no sense of ’em.”
“What were you hopin’ to find?” Chloride asked.
“Some distinctive prints,” Bo explained. “Maybe one of the Devils was riding a horse with a shoe that’s been nicked up so we’d recognize it if we saw it again. The same thing might be true of a man’s boot print. But in this case there are too many tracks for that to do us any good. We don’t have any way of knowing who they belong to.”
Scratch straightened. “Maybe we ought to ride over to those trees where the bushwhackers hid. Might be something over there worth findin’.”
“That’s a good idea,” Chloride said, “but hang on a minute first.”
Without waiting to see if the Texans were going to agree to that request, Chloride scurried off into the brush where he had landed the day before, according to his story.
“You seein’ a man about a dog in there, old-timer?” Scratch called after him. “We ain’t got all day, you know.”
“No, dagnab it, just wait a minute, will you?” Bo and Scratch stood there in the trail holding their horses’ reins as they listened to Chloride rustling around in the bushes. After a moment, he let out an excited whoop. “I figured I might find ’em!”
“Find what?” Bo asked.
Chloride emerged from the brush carrying an old revolver in one hand and an even more ancient hat in the other. “I lost my hat and my gun when I got tossed off the wagon,” he explained. “I was so shook up after watchin’ what that boss Devil did to those poor dead fellas, I didn’t think to look for ’em before I lit a shuck for town. That’s one reason I agreed to come along with you boys today. I wanted to see if they were still here somewheres.”