Deadwood Gulch

CHAPTER 10

Bo and Scratch were experienced enough to keep their hands well away from their guns in a situation like this. Bo could only hope that Chloride would do the same thing. The man on the porch was already spooked, and it wouldn’t take much to make him pull the triggers on that scattergun.

“Take it easy, mister,” Bo said in a calm, steady voice, just like he was trying to settle down a skittish horse. “We’re not here to rob anybody, and we’re sure not members of the Deadwood Devils. Are you Andrew Keefer?”

The question seemed to take the man by surprise, but it got through to him. He lowered the shotgun slightly as he frowned. “I’m Keefer,” he admitted. “Who in blazes are you?”

Bo nodded toward his companions. “This is Scratch Morton and Chloride Coleman. My name’s Bo Creel. Miss Sutton sent us out here from Deadwood to pick up a shipment of ore and take it back to the bank.”

“Coleman,” Keefer repeated as he studied the old-timer. “I know you. You drive for the Argosy.”

“Drove,” Chloride corrected. “I don’t work for Nicholson no more.”

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard about the Argosy gold wagon being held up a couple of days ago?” Bo asked.

“Nobody from out here has been to town and back the past few days,” Keefer said. “No reason to go. Nobody’s got any money to spend.” The shotgun’s twin barrels rose again. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Miss Sutton sent a letter with us,” Bo said. “If you’ll let me reach inside my coat without your trigger finger getting too itchy, I’ll get it for you.”

Keefer nodded. “Go ahead. But be careful now,” he warned.

Slowly, Bo reached inside his coat and drew Martha’s letter from the pocket. He brought his horse closer to the porch and held out the paper. Keefer lowered the shotgun again and stepped up to take it. He moved back quickly, just in case this was some sort of trick, Bo suspected.

Keefer grunted as he looked at the wax seal, no doubt recognizing it. He tucked the scattergun under his arm, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. His eyes scanned it quickly, and as he read, Bo saw him relax a little.

“It appears you’re who you say you are,” Keefer said as he folded the letter and stuck it in a pocket in his brown corduroy trousers. He also wore work boots, a gray wool shirt, and a brown vest. He was so short and stocky that he appeared to be almost as wide as he was tall, but there was an air of strength about him. He wasn’t fat, but rather thick with muscle instead. Bo would have been willing to bet that Andrew Keefer had swung a pickax in many a mine shaft before he ever became a superintendent.

Keefer went on. “Come on inside. You can put your horses and that mule in the corral later.”

The three men dismounted, tied their reins to porch posts, and followed Keefer into the sturdy log building. A fire crackled in the fireplace, combating the November chill that seeped in from outside. Keefer had a fire going in a cast-iron stove, too, with a coffeepot sitting on top of it.

“Coffee?” he asked. “That was probably a pretty cold ride from town.”

“It was,” Bo admitted. “Coffee sounds good.”

This front room was an office, with a desk cluttered with maps, diagrams, ledger books, and assorted paperwork. There was an armchair in front of the desk and a sofa against the wall opposite the fireplace. When Keefer had filled tin cups for all of them, he went behind the desk and waved for his visitors to have a seat. Bo took the armchair, while Scratch and Chloride sat on the sofa.

“Tell me about what happened to the Argosy gold wagon,” Keefer said.

Chloride told the story of the holdup, then Bo took up the tale of their efforts the previous day to follow the trail of the road agents, including the ambush attempt. Keefer listened with rapt attention, and when Bo was finished, he said, “It sounds to me like you fellows were mighty lucky not to wind up with pitchforks carved on your foreheads.”

“I thought the same thing,” Chloride said.

“I have to admit, I’m a little surprised the Argosy got hit,” Keefer went on. “I was beginning to think the Devils wouldn’t go after it. But I suppose it was just a matter of time.”

“Maybe,” Bo said, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he continued. “We’re hoping we’ll have another crack at the varmints.”

Keefer leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk. “Wait just a blessed minute,” he said. “You’re not telling me that you plan to use our gold wagon as bait for a trap, are you? I won’t stand for that.”

Bo shook his head. “No, sir. That’s not what I meant. Scratch and Chloride and I will do our dead-level best to get Miss Sutton’s gold to town, just like we signed on to do. But considering how many times the shipments from the Golden Queen have been hit already, it seems likely the Devils will come after us again. Maybe not on this run, but sooner or later they will.”

“And when they do, we’re gonna give ’em a hot lead welcome, you can count on that,” Scratch added.

“I see what you mean,” Keefer said, slowly nodding. “But what makes you think the three of you can stop the Devils from stealing the gold when nobody else has been able to?”

Scratch grinned and said, “We stopped ol’ Santa Anna from runnin’ roughshod over Texas, and the odds were against us and the rest of Sam Houston’s boys. I reckon we can handle a bunch of no-account owlhoots.”

Keefer grunted. “There’s a difference. You Texas lads caught the Mexicans sleeping, as I recall. The Devils of Deadwood Gulch will be ready for trouble. They’ll be bringing it with them, in fact.”

“We’ll just have to get the jump on them somehow,” Bo said. “In the meantime, Miss Sutton seemed to think you’d have enough gold on hand to make up a shipment right away.”

Keefer nodded. “That’s true. I have a few bags of dust in the safe, and we’ve milled enough ore to make up two loads. Better not try to get it all to town at once, though. I don’t want to risk everything.”

“That’s good. One wagon at a time is plenty. Maybe you can get the shipment loaded this afternoon, and we can start for Deadwood first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Keefer said. He stood up and extended his hand to each of them in turn. “There are a few empty bunks in the bunkhouse, and you’ll eat in the mess hall with the rest of the men. Welcome to the Golden Queen. We’re glad to have you with us, gentlemen . . .” He paused and added pointedly, “Even though it might not be for very long, if those blasted Devils have anything to say about it!”

Chloride was in his element here. He supervised the loading of the gold wagon during the afternoon. The raw ore had already been run through the stamp mill to break it up and then processed with mercury to free the gold from the quartz in which it was embedded. The resulting ore, even though it would be refined more later on, was mostly gold and was formed into rough bars by melting and casting it. Workers at the mine stacked those bars into crates, and then the crates were loaded into the wagon. The heavy canvas bags of gold dust from the placer operation were stowed away in a locked compartment under the wagon seat.

Keefer picked some of his most trustworthy men to stand guard over the wagon during the night. Everyone who worked at the Golden Queen was pretty reliable, he explained to the Texans and Chloride, otherwise they would have deserted Martha Sutton, but a wagon full of gold was a tempting thing even for the most honest man.

Bo agreed, and for that reason he and Scratch took turns checking on the wagon from time to time during the night. They got plenty of sleep, though—the mine’s bunkhouse was as comfortable as the bunkhouses they had stayed in on numerous ranches—and were rested and ready to go the next morning after a hearty breakfast in the mess hall.

Chloride hitched up the team himself, checking every bit of harness. “Worn leather’s fouled up many a man in times of trouble,” he explained.

Bo and Scratch saddled their horses. Instead of riding in the wagon, they would be mounted so they could move quicker if the need arose. They were armed with their usual weapons, and they borrowed a couple of shotguns from the rack in Keefer’s office and placed them in the wagon.

When the wagon was ready to roll, Keefer came outside to say so long. A number of the miners had emerged from the shaft and the mill to watch, too. Their livelihoods were riding on that wagon. If Bo, Scratch, and Chloride could get the gold safely into the bank in Deadwood, eventually some of the value from it would find its way back to the miners in the form of the wages they were owed. That was everybody’s hope, anyway.

Chloride climbed onto the wagon seat and grasped the reins. Bo and Scratch swung up into their saddles. Resting a hand on one of the front wheels, Keefer said, “Good luck be with you, men.” He added, “It’s not too late to send a couple of fellows with you as extra guards.”

Bo shook his head. “No offense, Mr. Keefer, but then we’d have to look out for them, too, as well as the gold. And from the looks of it, your crew here is a mite thin. You probably need every man you’ve got just to keep the operation going.”

“That’s true,” Keefer said with a nod. “Some of the men quit when Miss Sutton starting having trouble paying them. Can’t blame them, really, but it’s left us shorthanded.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Bo said as he lifted his reins.

“Good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” Scratch added with a smile.

“It’s not the creek I’m worried about,” Keefer said as he stepped back and raised a hand in farewell. Chloride slapped the lines against the backs of the team, and with the rattle of bit chains and the creaking of wheels, the wagon lurched into motion. Bo and Scratch returned Keefer’s wave and rode after the vehicle. Their Winchesters rested across the saddles in front of them, rather than in the sheaths strapped to the horses. If they needed the rifles, chances were they would need them in a hurry.

Bo and Scratch split up and flanked the wagon. The trail was wide enough for this escort arrangement in many places, although at times they would have to ride one in front and one behind the wagon where the path narrowed down.

“I hope you fellas are plannin’ on keepin’ your eyes open,” Chloride said as they left the Golden Queen behind them. “Our best chance of gettin’ through alive is if you spot them Devils before they open fire on us.”

“You ain’t tellin’ us anything we don’t already know,” Scratch said.

“If there’s any shooting, don’t whip up the team and try to outrun the trouble,” Bo suggested. “You couldn’t do it with an empty wagon, and you sure can’t with one loaded down heavy like this one. You’ll be better off stopping and taking cover under the wagon instead.”

“What’ll the two of you be doin’ while I’m hunkerin’ down?” Chloride wanted to know.

“That depends on the situation,” Bo said.

“But you can figure we’ll be tryin’ to kill as many of those varmints as we can,” Scratch added.

Chloride nodded and fell silent. Bo could tell from the tense look on his leathery face that the old-timer was worried. Under the circumstances, only a fool wouldn’t be a mite nervous. There were dozens of places where some owlhoot with a pair of field glasses could be hidden, watching the Golden Queen to see when the wagon left. It was possible somebody was riding to carry word of the shipment to the rest of the gang right now.

To take Chloride’s mind off the situation as they reached the end of the canyon and started down the gulch toward Deadwood, Bo asked him questions about his life and got the old-timer talking about all the places he had been and the things he had done. Chloride had been to see the elephant, no doubt about that. He had been part of the California Gold Rush and had chased after bonanzas in Nevada and Montana Territory. Much like the Texans, he’d had a host of other jobs over the years but had been too fiddle-footed to stay with any of them for very long.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of men just like him scattered across the frontier, men who had never been able to settle down and live the sort of lives that most hombres did, men filled with a restlessness that denied them peace and stability and demanded freedom to roam. Sometimes the price of that freedom was loneliness, and when their time came to cross the divide, it would be on some freezing mountaintop or under a burning desert sun, with a bullet in their guts or a knife in their back or a sickness wasting them away from the inside out. They wouldn’t die in bed, with their loving families gathered around them, and maybe there were times when they regretted that, but deep down they knew it was the way things had to be.

Bo and Scratch had lived that same sort of life, so they knew what Chloride was talking about and recognized the wistful tone that crept into the old-timer’s voice now and then as he spun his yarns. The years rolled by in their bittersweet way for men such as them.

Even as those thoughts filled his mind, a large part of Bo’s brain was alert for trouble, and his eyes, keen despite his age, never stopped moving. His gaze roamed over the thickly wooded walls of the gulch, watching for the sun’s split-second reflection on metal, or movement where everything should be still, or any other indication that things were not as they should be.

Early that morning, as they were getting ready to go, their breath had fogged thickly in front of their faces in the cold air. By now the sun had risen high enough that the temperature had warmed a little, especially here in the middle of the gulch next to the creek. Up ahead on the left, a tall, rocky outcropping loomed up and cast a thick shadow over a brushy area at the base of the slope. The sun didn’t penetrate there.

Bo’s eyes narrowed as he spotted what looked like a tiny puff of smoke drifting over that brush. It wasn’t smoke at all, he realized. It was somebody’s breath fogging up because the air under that big slab of rock was a little colder, just cold enough to cause that telltale sign.

And there was no reason for anybody to be hiding in there unless they were up to no good.

Softly, Bo called across to his old friend. “Scratch. Up ahead on the left, under that big rock.”

“I see it,” Scratch replied, equally softly. “Chloride, get ready to move.”

The old-timer stiffened on the seat. “What in blazes—” he began.

Then the brush trembled a little, and Bo caught a glimpse of a rifle barrel poking between branches. There was no time for anything but action. He yanked his horse to the side, shouted, “Chloride, get down!” and snapped the Winchester to his shoulder. Shots roared out as he worked the rifle’s lever as fast as he could and sent a steady stream of lead into that brush.