The leader of the Devils had mentioned their boss, and Bo couldn’t help but wonder who that was. Lawrence Nicholson? Reese Bardwell? Someone else he hadn’t even thought of? Who else in Deadwood had a reason to strike at the mines using the Devils?
Anybody who wanted to collect a fortune in gold, of course. That was the simplest and most likely answer. But something stirred in the back of Bo’s mind, something he had seen or heard that might mean something, even though he couldn’t figure out what it was.
After a while he put those thoughts out of his mind without coming up with any answers. It was too cold to think, he told himself with a faint smile. His brain just didn’t want to work in this weather. Instead he concentrated on keeping the fire going and listening for the sounds of anyone approaching the camp. It was hard to hear with the wind blowing like that, of course, but depending on what direction somebody was coming from, it might also carry the sound of hoofbeats to him.
That didn’t happen. There was just the wind and the snow and the cold, and as Bo hunkered there next to the fire, he felt like he and his companions were the last living souls in a vast, icy wasteland.
The wind died down sometime during the night, and the snow stopped, too. The sky was still overcast the next morning, but it lightened enough with dawn to reveal that the storm had dumped about a foot of snow on the Black Hills. Certainly not a great amount for this area, where the drifts could be twenty feet deep at times, but it was early in the season for such a snowfall.
There was something Bo had forgotten, too, but Scratch reminded him of it. When Scratch nudged Bo’s shoulder to wake him, he said, “Happy Thanksgivin’ .”
Bo sat up and yawned. “You’re right. It is Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, and I’d sure be givin’ thanks right now if I was back in Deadwood gnawin’ on a drumstick from a big ol’ turkey Sue Beth cooked.”
“Deadwood,” Bo muttered. The Devils would be there by now. They might even be robbing the bank at this very moment. It wouldn’t matter to them that the bank wasn’t open on a holiday like this. They would kick down the door anyway and probably blow the vault open with dynamite. The citizens of Deadwood probably wouldn’t have much to be thankful for this morning.
The men had a skimpy breakfast of coffee and jerky, then Bo, Scratch, and Gustaffson held another council of war. “We need to backtrack,” Gustaffson suggested. “That ought to take us to the hideout.”
“That won’t be as easy as it sounds,” Bo pointed out. “The wind blotted out all our tracks, and the snow’s covered up some of the landmarks. We know the right general direction, though, so we can head that way.”
“And at least we’ll be able to see well enough we won’t have to worry about fallin’ off a cliff,” Scratch added.
They gave the horses a little grain from the supply carried by the troopers in their saddlebags and melted some snow in the coffeepot so the animals could drink. Then it was time to saddle up and see if they could find a good place to ambush the gang when the Devils came back this way to retrieve the rest of their loot.
If they hadn’t been facing a deadly shootout with a gang of killers and thieves, it would have been easier to appreciate the snow-covered beauty of the rugged terrain around them. The dark, pine-covered hills provided a vivid contrast to the sweeping vistas of snow. Growing up in Texas, Bo and Scratch had seldom seen sights like this, and even though in their years of wandering they had looked out over many snow-covered landscapes, they were still impressed by the spectacular scenery.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Scratch said. “I’d still rather be in Mexico or some other warm place right now, but this ain’t bad, Bo.”
“No, it’s not,” Bo agreed. “You can see why the Sioux believe these hills are a sacred place. It’s sort of a shame folks ever found gold up here.”
“The hills will still be here when the gold is gone,” Gustaffson put in. “They may even be here when all the people are gone. We’ll never know.”
Scratch looked over at the sergeant. “Sorta philosophical for an old three-striper, ain’t you, Sarge?”
Gustaffson scowled. “You figure I never think about anything except the army?”
“No offense meant,” Scratch said with a grin. Bo interrupted the exchange by pointing and asking, “Do those twin pines on that knob look familiar?”
“I think so,” Scratch replied. “Did we see ’em when we were tryin’ to follow the gang yesterday?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Bo turned slowly from side to side in the saddle, studying the countryside around them. He pointed again, this time to the left. “I think the canyon where the hideout is should be over that way.”
“Let’s take a look,” Scratch suggested.
About a quarter of an hour later, Bo spotted a thin tendril of smoke climbing into the sky ahead of them. Scratch saw it at the same time and said, “I’ll bet that’s comin’ from the chimney of that old cabin.”
“I won’t take that bet,” Bo said. “I think you’re right. That gives us something to aim for.”
The ten men headed for the smoke. As they drew closer, Scratch said, “The fella they left behind to get the gold ready to go probably found that dead hombre by now.”
Bo nodded. “Yeah, when Lowell didn’t show up from guard duty this morning, I’m sure the other man went looking for him. So he knows by now that something’s wrong.”
“It’d be a good idea to get our hands on him so he can’t warn the rest of the bunch.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” Bo said.
Gustaffson asked, “How would it be if we forted up in that cabin you told me about? We could hide the horses and make it look like everything was normal, and the Devils would come riding right up to it. They’ll want the rest of that gold.”
Bo thought about it and nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. We don’t want to put everybody inside the cabin, though. Unless we got all of the outlaws on the first try, they could bottle us up in there. It would be better if we had a couple of men in the cabin and the rest up here on the ridge. There are plenty of rocks to provide cover.”
“That sounds like it could work,” Gustaffson said. “God rest the lieutenant’s soul, but I don’t reckon he knew near as much about tactics as he thought he did.”
Scratch said, “The only way you live through as many fights as Bo and me have is to learn a few things along the way. Either that, or be the luckiest hombres on the face of the earth.”
“A little of both isn’t bad,” Bo added with a smile.
They reined in and dismounted a hundred yards from the edge of the canyon. The Texans and Gustaffson went forward on foot while the rest of the troopers stayed with the horses. The body of Lowell, the unlucky guard, was gone, indicating that the other man left behind had found it, although it was possible that wolves could have dragged it off. There was no sign of that, however.
“The fella’s gonna know something’s wrong,” Scratch said. “He’ll be ready for trouble. Might be keepin’ an eye on the trail through a chink in the wall right now.”
“That’s why we’re not going down that ledge,” Bo said. “You feel like climbing down a rope again?”
Scratch grinned. “Sure. We’ll come up behind the cabin?”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
“What do you need me to do?” Gustaffson asked.
“Wait for Scratch and me to give you the all-clear,” Bo said. When Gustaffson scowled, Bo went on. “I know you want to be in the middle of this, Olaf, but it’s a two-man job, at most.”
“All right,” Gustaffson replied grudgingly. “I suppose there’ll be plenty of fighting later.”
“I think you can count on that,” Bo said.
They fetched Scratch’s rope from his horse and tied one end of it around the trunk of a scrub pine growing fairly close to the edge of the canyon. When Scratch dropped the rest of the lariat over the edge, it fell to within a few feet of the canyon floor. He looked at Bo and asked, “You ready?”