Authors: William W. Johnstone
Sidewinders (18 page)
“Yeah, we've got casualties,” Gustaffson said, his voice grim now. “Including the lieutenant.”
That surprised Bo. “I heard him just a few minutes ago.”
“He ain't dead, just wounded. He's being tended to now. Come on, I'll take you to him.” To the troopers scattered behind the rocks, Gustaffson said, “The rest of you men stay where you are, and for God's sake, stay alert. If you see anybody move out there, chances are it ain't a friend.”
The sergeant led Bo and Scratch to the largest of the tents, where a makeshift field hospital had been set up. By lantern light, one of the troopers was cleaning a bloody gash on Lieutenant Holbrook's upper left arm where a bullet had creased him. Holbrook looked pale and queasy, and he turned his head away from his wounded arm as if he was afraid the sight of the blood would make him sick.
“How's he doing, Wilson?” Gustaffson asked the trooper. The man was older than the usual cavalry private. His weathered face and iron-gray hair put him at least in his forties.
“He'll be fine, as long as he doesn't get blood poisoning,” Trooper Wilson replied. “And I'm doing everything I can to prevent that. The lieutenant was lucky.”
Luckier than the two soldiers lying on the ground with blankets pulled up over their faces, Bo thought. Blood soaked through those blankets in places. Those troopers hadn't made it.
A couple of other men, one with a bloody bandage around his right thigh and another who had been shot through the hand, were in better shape, certainly better than the two fatalities. Holbrook's wound appeared to be the least serious of the lot.
The lieutenant winced as Wilson used a carbolic-soaked rag to clean the gash. “Where were you two men?” he demanded of the Texans. “You're supposed to be helping us! Instead you let those outlaws attack us!”
“If we hadn't fired those warning shots, the first shots you heard would have been the ones that killed all your pickets,” Bo said bluntly. “And then the Devils would have riddled all the tents before your men could even crawl out of their blankets. They had plenty of light to aim by, after all, with those fires still burning.”
Holbrook flushed angrily, which at least got a little color back into his face. “This was our first night out here,” he said. “I didn't think the Devils would attack us yetâ”
“I don't reckon they saw any reason to waste time,” Scratch said. “They didn't like the idea of havin' a cavalry patrol out here huntin' 'em.”
“They'll soon learn they can't get away with ambushing the United States Cavalry,” Holbrook snapped. “Sergeant, did we suffer any other casualties?”
“A few nicks,” Gustaffson answered. “Nothing the men can't tend to themselves.”
“Very well.” Holbrook flinched again, this time as Trooper Wilson bound a dressing in place around his arm, and went on. “Organize a burial detail. We'll lay Troopers Rutherford and Bennett to rest first thing in the morning. Assign one of the uninjured men to accompany Mitchell and Stoneham back to Deadwood.”
The man who had been shot through the hand spoke up, saying, “Beggin' your pardon, Lieutenant, but I don't have to go back. I can ride just fine, so I should stay with the patrol.”
“You may be able to ride,” Holbrook said, “but you can't handle a rifle one-handed, Stoneham. You're going back.”
“I'll see to it, Lieutenant,” Gustaffson said before the young soldier could protest again.
Holbrook nodded. “Excellent. The rest of us will continue searching for the enemy.”
“What about you, sir? You're injured, too.”
Holbrook's face hardened. “I said, the rest of us will continue searching for the enemy. That's exactly what I meant, Sergeant. Tell the men we'll be leaving as soon as it's light enough to follow a trail.” He frowned at Bo and Scratch. “That is, if our
scouts
think they'll be able to pick up the trail of the men who ambushed us.”
scouts
think they'll be able to pick up the trail of the men who ambushed us.”
Bo could tell that Scratch was about to make some angry response, and he couldn't blame his old friend for feeling that way. The lieutenant was making it sound like they were somehow responsible for what had happened, when the truth was it had been Holbrook who had ordered those big fires built. Chances were, things would have been a lot worse if the Texans hadn't done what they did.
But Holbrook was in no mood to listen to that, Bo knew. To keep Scratch's hot temper from annoying the officer any further, Bo said quickly, “We'll be ready, Lieutenant. The Devils may have overplayed their hand this time. Could be they'll lead us right to their hideout.”
CHAPTER 18
When Bo got around to checking his watch, he saw that it was only an hour or so until dawn. No point in trying to go back to sleep now, he decided, and Scratch felt the same way, so they walked back to the trees where they had been camped earlier and fetched their horses to the main camp. The animals were unharmed, as Bo had hoped.
It was unlikely the Devils would come calling again tonight, and if they did, all the troopers were alert and on edge after the attack. They wouldn't be surprised a second time.
As a cold gray light appeared in the sky, Bo saw that more clouds had moved in. The wind picked up, blowing harder. Scratch gazed at the thick overcast and said, “Looks like we might be in for a blue norther.”
“I don't think they call them that up here in Dakota Territory,” Bo said.
“Well, whatever they call it, could be some rough weather on the way.” Scratch looked over at Bo. “Say, what's the date?”
Bo pondered that for a moment, then said, “The twenty-fourth, I think.”
“Son of a gun. Tomorrow's Thanksgivin'. No turkey feast for us, I reckon.” Scratch shook his head. “Although with that wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant in charge, I reckon I'll be plenty thankful if we're still alive tomorrow.”
Bo couldn't argue with that.
He and Scratch rode over to the trees where the Devils had hidden to launch their ambush, and they had a look around. There wasn't much to see, just some empty shell casings littering the ground. Any wounded outlaws had been taken with the rest of the gang. The Texans dismounted and walked the same direction the outlaws had fled the night before. Scratch pointed out some broken branches and rocks that had been turned over.
“They were in too big a hurry to cover their tracks,” he said. “If we're lucky, maybe they were that careless all the way back to their hideout.”
Bo grunted. He didn't think that was too likely.
They found the spot where the outlaws had left their horses. Hoofprints led away from there, following the ridge to the southwest. Of course, there really wasn't anywhere else for the gang to go. The walls of the gulches on both sides of the ridge were too steep for the horses to handle in all but a few places.
By the time the Texans returned to camp, the two troopers who were killed in the ambush had been buried, and Gustaffson was getting the men ready to ride. Lieutenant Holbrook came up to meet Bo and Scratch. He wore his left arm in a black silk sling that Trooper Wilson had rigged.
“Did you find the trail?” Holbrook demanded.
Bo nodded. “It won't be much trouble to follow.”
“Good! I'd like to catch up to those outlaws and deal with them today, if possible. There's no need to give them another chance to ambush us tonight.”
“Now
that
I agree with, Lieutenant. Are you sure you'll be able to handle the ride?”
that
I agree with, Lieutenant. Are you sure you'll be able to handle the ride?”
“What should I do?” Holbrook snapped. “Go back to Deadwood with my tail between my legs and leave the patrol under the command of Sergeant Gustaffson and a couple of civilians?”
“Wellâ” Scratch began.
“We just don't want you to get blood poisoning, like Trooper Wilson warned you about,” Bo cut in.
“I'm fine.” Holbrook made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Let's get on the trail of those thieves and killers.”
The sky had lightened a little more, but the clouds were so thick Bo figured the heavens would remain gloomy and overcast the rest of the day.
Sergeant Gustaffson must have felt the same way. As the patrol proceeded along the ridge, the non-com brought his horse up beside Bo's and said, “That sky looks so threatening I expect old Odin to part the clouds at any minute and glare down at us with his one good eye as he pronounces judgment on us. He'll have all the rest of those grim, gray gods with him.”
“What are you talkin' about?” Scratch asked from Bo's other side.
Gustaffson laughed and shook his head. “Nothing. Folks in the part of the world where my family comes from tend to be a mite down in the mouth most of the time. I reckon you would be, too, if it was always cold and dark where you lived.”
“Maybe,” Scratch said. “I like Mexico, myself. Warm sun and good food and pretty little señoritas . . . It's plumb peaceful down there.”
“Yeah, that's not what you thought the last time we were there and all those hombres tried to kill us,” Bo pointed out.
“Well, everywhere has its drawbacks, I suppose.”
Something else occurred to Bo. Quietly, he said to Gustaffson, “Trooper Wilson did a good job taking care of those wounded men. Almost like he had medical training.”
Gustaffson looked around to make sure no one was riding very close to them before he said, “Yeah, Wilson's good enough at patching up wounds that it's almost like he was a surgeon back during the War Between the States. I'll bet some of those doctors who wore Confederate gray changed their names and came west after the war. A cavalry troop would be mighty lucky to have a fella like that join up with them.”
“As long as some of the men who still hate Rebels didn't know about it,” Bo said.
Gustaffson nodded. “Yeah. As long as that was true.”
Satisfied now, Bo let the subject drop. But it was good to know that they had a man with the knowledge and skill to treat the wounded with them.
Because there was no doubt in Bo's mind that more blood would be spilled before this was over.
By late morning, the patrol reached a spot where several ridges came together. Craggy cliffs rose above them. A number of canyons cut into those cliffs, the walls leaning toward each other like the jaws of a trap about to snap shut.
Lieutenant Holbrook reined in and signaled for the patrol to halt. He turned to Bo and Scratch and said, “I suppose now it'll become more difficult to follow the trail, since there are several ways they could have gone.”
“Yeah, they may have even split up,” Scratch said.
“That wouldn't surprise me a bit,” Bo added.
The silver-haired Texan swung down from his saddle. “Let me take a look around,” Scratch said.
For several minutes Scratch walked back and forth, studying the ground. Large stretches of it were too rocky to take a print, but there were other ways of following a trail. Finally, Scratch rejoined Bo and the lieutenant and said, “It looks like they stayed together and rode into that center canyon.”
He pointed out the opening in the cliffs he was talking about. It was twenty feet wide and ran straight for perhaps fifty yards before it took a sharp turn.
“Are you sure?” Holbrook asked. “I don't see any tracks at all.”
“Horses can't travel over rocky ground without turnin' over some of the rocks, and their shoes leave little nicks and scratches on the rocks, too,” Scratch explained. “And there are places where there's enough dirt to pick up part of a hoofprint. I can see enough sign to tell that a bunch of riders came through here in the past twelve hours, and there ain't nothin' pointin' to any of those other canyons.” Scratch nodded. “That's the way they went, all right. You can count on it.”
“And if Scratch says it, you can believe it,” Bo put in. “He's a fine tracker. Always has been.”
“All right,” Holbrook said. “That means we go after them.”
“Hold on a minute,” Bo said. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
Holbrook frowned at him. “What do you mean? We came out here to track down the Deadwood Devils, didn't we? Who else could it have been that attacked us last night?”
“I'm not saying it wasn't the Devils,” Bo replied. “I'm saying it might not be a good idea to follow them into that canyon. Can't you see that it's a perfect setting for another ambush?”
Scratch added, “They haven't gone to any trouble to cover their trail, Lieutenant. It's sorta like they want us to follow 'em.”
“Nonsense,” Holbrook said. “They were just in a hurry to get away once it became obvious that their ambush wasn't going to work.”
“I don't know,” Bo said. “Maybe they thought it would be easier just to lure you into a trap.”
Sergeant Gustaffson had listened to the conversation with great interest. Now he spoke up, saying, “Beggin' your pardon, Lieutenant, but what these fellas are saying makes sense. If those outlaws really wanted to get away, they could have split up here and gone half a dozen different directions. Instead they stayed together and rode into that canyon.”
“Which is probably where their hideout is located,” Holbrook said with irritation and impatience in his voice. “You men don't seem to understand. This is our chance to catch them all together and wipe them out. The best time to attack is when the enemy is concentrated in one spot. You'd understand that if you'd been trained in tactics like I have.”
Scratch and Gustaffson both looked like they were about to lose their tempers. Bo was more than a mite annoyed himself at Holbrook's smug certainty that he was right. Keeping a tight rein on his own anger, Bo said, “Maybe you'd better let Scratch and me do a little scouting before you go charging in there, Lieutenant. That's why you brought us along, isn't it?”
Holbrook shrugged. “I suppose so. I don't want to waste this opportunity, though. I'll give you a few minutes to reconnoiter in that canyon, but then I'm leading my men in pursuit of the enemy.”
“Just wait until we get back,” Bo suggested.
“And if you hear shots, don't come chargin' in there,” Scratch added. “We'll get back to you if we can. If we can't, then you'll know it was a trap and we've sprung it.”
“Go ahead,” Holbrook said. Bo noted that the lieutenant didn't actually promise to go along with what they had asked, and that left him with an uneasy feeling as Scratch mounted up and the two of them rode toward the dark cleft.
“I knew no good would come from gettin' mixed up with some greenhorn glory hound,” Scratch muttered as they approached the canyon mouth.
“Maybe he'll wait,” Bo said.
“You really think so?”
“Well, it depends on whether or not he listens to Olaf.”
“He ain't showed no signs of it so far,” Scratch pointed out.
“Yeah, I know,” Bo said, and he couldn't keep a note of worry out of his voice.
The Texans drew their Winchesters and rested them across the saddles as they reached the mouth of the canyon. The wind that whistled down the cleft was bone chilling. Steep, rocky walls rose fifty or sixty feet on both sides of them, and the dark, overcast day meant that a thick gloom clogged the canyon as they proceeded into it. They rode side by side, Bo on the right and Scratch on the left, and each of them watched the rimrock on his side, alert for any sign of an ambush. There were no sounds except the slow, steady hoofbeats of their horses.
They reached the first bend and rode around it. Now they could see another hundred yards or so ahead of them. The canyon floor was empty except for some boulders and stunted bushes here and there along the base of the walls.
“This cut's liable to zigzag along for a mile or more, without ever runnin' straight for more'n a hundred yards at a time,” Scratch said. “And then it might run smack-dab into a dead end.”
Bo knew his friend was right. Some geological upheaval in the dim, distant past had created this canyon, possibly at the same time the rest of the Black Hills had risen. He had read about such things in books, and he had seen the results many times with his own eyes.
That cataclysm had left a number of large rocks broken and perched on the rims of both sides of the canyon. Bo eyed them warily as he and Scratch rode past.
“It wouldn't take much to start an avalanche along here,” he said quietly. “Get a log and lever one or two of those boulders over the edge, and it would pick up plenty more on the way down.”
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