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  “Is it here at the livery?”

  Chloride shook his head. “No, I got a little shack up the gulch a ways. Some prospector must’ve had a claim there back in the old days, but he didn’t find no color and abandoned the place.” His bushy eyebrows rose as a thought obviously occurred to him. “Say, you boys could stay there if you want, and save a little money. You’d have to spread your bedrolls on the floor, but I wouldn’t charge you nothin’.”

  Bo and Scratch shared a glance again. If they could get a refund from Hanson, they’d be able to eat for a few days longer without having to accept credit from Sue Beth Pendleton.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Scratch said. He turned to the hostler. “What’s your name, amigo?”

  “Esteban Gonzalez, señor,” the man replied.

  “Well, Esteban, tell your boss we won’t be needin’ to stay here after all, and we’ll be takin’ our horses with us.”

  “He can take out for the feed he’s already given them,” Bo said, “but we’ll expect the rest of our money back when we come by here in the morning.”

  Gonzalez looked doubtful. “I don’t know, señores. Once Señor Hanson has money in his pocket, it is always very reluctant to come out again.”

  “Just tell him what we said,” Bo requested. “We’ll be by early.”

  The hostler sighed. “Sí, señor. I will tell him.”

  Bo and Scratch saddled their mounts and led them out of their stalls. “You can ride double with me, Chloride,” Bo offered. He swung up into the saddle and helped the old-timer climb on behind him.

  They rode out of Deadwood with Chloride giving them directions. Despite the town’s façade of respectability during the day, at night it was obvious that this was still a mining town. The saloons were all busy as the Texans and their elderly companion rode past.

  As they started up the gulch along Deadwood Creek, Bo said, “I’ve got an idea where you might be able to get a job as a driver, Chloride.”

  “Where’s that? I tried ever’body in town.”

  “What about the Golden Queen?”

  Chloride grunted. “Except that ’un! That’s a hoodoo outfit, boys. Bad luck all around.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Their wagons have been held up more’n any of the other mines, and besides, it’s run by a gal! Women is bad luck. You been around long enough, you ought to know that.”

  “The only reason Miss Sutton’s running the company is because her father died,” Bo pointed out.

  “Well, that proves my point right there, don’t it? Ol’ Mike Sutton just up and dropped dead one day. If that ain’t a hoodoo, I don’t know what is.”

  “Anything suspicious about his death?” Bo asked, apparently casually.

  “Suspicious?” Chloride repeated. “Not that I ever heard anything about. Sutton was just walkin’ along the street one day when he stopped and sorta grabbed his chest. He staggered along a couple more steps and then fell flat on his face. Doc said he was prob’ly dead when he hit the boardwalk. Heart gave out.”

  Bo nodded. “Yes, that’s what Miss Sutton told us. Do you know where he’d been just before that happened?”

  Chloride scratched his beard as he tried to remember. “Down at the bank, if I recollect right,” he answered. “I think folks said he’d been talkin’ to Jerome Davenport about extendin’ him some money. The Devils had already hit a couple of his shipments, and he was already havin’ trouble payin’ the fellas who work for him.”

  “Davenport turned him down?”

  Chloride leaned to the side and spat. “Davenport ain’t got to worry about his heart ever givin’ out. He ain’t got one. I think there’s a poke full of gold dust where it’s supposed to be.”

  Scratch laughed. “Sounds like you ain’t over fond of him.”

  “The varmint said he didn’t suspect me of workin’ with the Devils, but he sure made it sound like that’s what he really thought.”

  “There’s one really good way for you to prove that’s not true,” Bo said. “Help us catch them, and everybody in town will know you’re not crooked, Chloride.”

  “Yeah, that’s a pretty good idea, all right,” the old-timer said. “Providin’ that we don’t get ourselves shot full of holes doin’ it!”

  CHAPTER 6

  The old abandoned shack that Chloride had moved into was one step above a rat hole, but it wasn’t a very big step. The walls were a shaky combination of scrap lumber, tin, and tarpaper. The cold wind penetrated through a number of cracks and gaps. But the roof was still fairly sturdy, Chloride claimed, and he hadn’t fallen through the floor yet. He had a small stove for heat, an old barrel that served as a table and had a candle on it, and a narrow bunk. A rickety shed attached to the side of the shack provided shelter for the Texans’ horses and Chloride’s mule.

  “See? All the comforts of home!” the old-timer declared proudly.

  “Yeah, Bo and me woke up in a hog pen a while back, so this is better,” Scratch said. “I guess.”

  They spread their bedrolls on the floor and went to sleep, since there was nothing else to do. It was a chilly night, a promise of much colder ones to come, but the Texans were fairly warm in their blankets. During their four decades of drifting, they had spent plenty of nights in places more uncomfortable than this one.

  Despite that, they were both glad to get up the next morning and start moving around again. Stiff muscles protested at first but soon loosened up. Chloride had some coffee and a few stale biscuits. It wasn’t much in the way of breakfast, but he was happy to share with the Texans.

  After they had eaten, they saddled their horses and Chloride lifted an old saddle onto the bony back of his mule. On this cold, clear morning, smoke rose from dozens of chimneys in Deadwood, about half a mile down the gulch from the shack. They would have to come back this way when they set out to pick up the trail of the Deadwood Devils at the site of the latest robbery, but Bo and Scratch wanted to see about getting some of their money back from the livery owner.

  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.”

  He checked the action on the cap-and-ball revolver and slid it into the empty holster he wore. Then he punched the old hat into shape—although to the Texans it seemed about as shapeless as before—and settled it on his head.

  Chloride sighed in satisfaction and said, “That’s better. I was feelin’ plumb nekkid without my hat and my gun.”

  “That’s somethin’ nobody wants to see,” Scratch said. “Come on.”

  They mounted up and rode along the trail until they were at the spot where the wagon had been when the road agents opened fire, between the deadfall on one side of the trail and the thick stand of trees on the other side of the creek. The stream flowed fast and cold over its rocky bed, but the water was shallow enough that the horses were able to splash across it without any trouble.

  When they reached the trees, they swung down from their saddles again. Chloride held the reins of all three mounts this time while Bo and Scratch searched among the trees and examined the ground.

  After a few minutes, Scratch reappeared with something in his hand. He held it out to show Chloride.

  “Got a couple of hombres who smoke quirlies, and one who favors cheroots,” the silver-haired Texan said as he displayed the remains of the smokes he had picked up.

  Bo came out of the trees and added, “And at least one gent who prefers a pipe. I found where he knocked out the dottle.”

  “How about brass?” Scratch asked.

  Bo nodded. “I saw quite a few cartridges. They didn’t bother to pick up the empties when they left. Looked like standard forty-four-forty rounds, though.”

  “Yeah, same here. How about the horses?”

  Bo nodded. “I can show you where they held them. Come on.”

  “That’s more like it,” Scratch muttered when he saw the welter of prints left by the horses while their owners were waiting for the Argosy gold wagon to come along. He knelt beside the tracks and studied them for long moments, filing away every detail, every nick and bent nail. Bo leaned over and peered at the hoofprints as well. His skill as a natural-born tracker wasn’t quite as good as Scratch’s, but he knew he would recognize some of those hoofprints if he saw them aga
in.

  “You reckon the Devils spend most of their time in Deadwood?” Scratch asked quietly.

  “Sure,” Bo said. “They probably have a hideout somewhere in the hills, but what good is a pile of stolen loot if all you do is squat in a cave somewhere all the time? Chloride said they were masked and that he never got a good look at their faces. Until now they’ve killed everybody they held up, so there weren’t any witnesses left behind.” Bo nodded confidently. “They’re hiding in plain sight, I’ll bet, right there in the middle of Deadwood.”

  Scratch grunted. “Probably pretendin’ to be respectable citizens.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it a bit,” Bo said. “Think you can follow their back trail from here?”

  “Maybe. If we’re right about them comin’ from Deadwood, though, it won’t do us much good. Chances are, they’ve got some rendezvous where they get together for their robberies, and from there the back trails’ll scatter out all over hell and gone.”

  “Maybe the place where they rendezvous is the same place they cache their loot,” Bo suggested.

  A grin stretched across Scratch’s face. “I didn’t think about that. You might be right, Bo. It’s sure worth checkin’ out, anyway. Let’s get Chloride and have a look.”

  “He may want to go back to Deadwood, since he’s already shown us the site of the robbery.”

  “We can let him make up his mind about that.”

  They walked back through the trees and found the old-timer where they had left him, still holding the two horses and the mule. “Any luck?” Chloride asked.

  “We’re going to try to follow their back trail,” Bo explained. “Do you want to come with us, or would you rather go back to town?”

  Chloride scratched his beard for a second, then said, “I’d just as soon go on with you fellas, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” Scratch said with a nod. He reached for the reins of his horse.

  The sudden whipcrack of a rifle shot split the chilly morning air, and Chloride’s hat leaped from his head into the air.

  CHAPTER 7