Devil's Canyon by Ralph Compton

bunch, and I led the men over Cajon pass, into California. As you can see, the
Californios
provided us with fine horses, weapons, and ammunition. The Utes ain’t forgot, an’ that’s somethin’ that can’t always be said of a white man.”
    As he spoke, his eyes were on Sangre and Hueso. From their expressions, it appeared his suspicions of the pair were well-founded.
    â€œIf you don’t get along with all the Utes,” said Hindes, “what’s to stop all the others from jumpin’ inahead of us, killin’ the teamsters, and takin’ the wagons?”
    â€œThey ain’t got the firepower,” Dog Face said. “Winchesters cut ’em down before they git within range with bows and arrows. That bunch that attacked the wagons a while ago, half of ’em died, without once drawin’ blood.”
    The Utes had gone about their business, paying no attention to Slade and his men. It was encouragement enough for the new arrivals, and they set about unsaddling.
    â€œWe got some grub,” Slade said, “but not enough to make much difference, with all these
hombres
.”
    â€œWe’re obliged,” said Dog Face, “but it won’t matter. It’s summer, and there’s plenty of game in these mountains. Come winter, we’ll drift west, toward the Great Basin.”
    There was a stream along the floor of the canyon, with the western rim overhanging enough to provide shelter. Slade and his companions released their horses and dragged their saddles beneath the rim. There being little else to do, the outlaws stretched out, heads on their saddles, and lighted quirlys.
    â€œA fine damn mess,” said Hindes sourly. “Now what’ll we do?”
    â€œWe’ll keep our mouths shut,” Slade replied. “Especially you. Spoutin’ off could get us all shot dead.”
    â€œThere’s worse things than throwin’ in with this bunch,” said Withers. “At least, we ain’t likely to be bushwhacked by Indians.”
    â€œHell, we’re surrounded by ’em,” Peeler said. “Letsomethin’ happen to this ugly varmint, Perro Cara, and we’re dead as last summer’s cornstalks.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re gonna do whatever it takes to keep him alive,” said Slade. “At least for a while. We’re going to make ourselves useful to him.”
    Hindes laughed. “The mark of an honest man. Never back-shoot or double-cross a gent, as long as he’s useful.”
    Somehow it rubbed Slade the wrong way, and with his hand near the butt of his Colt, he spoke.
    â€œHindes, you open your mouth one more time, and I’ll kill you.”
    *   *   *
    Despite the fact the first Indian attack had come from along the back trail, Faro didn’t give up scouting ahead. This time, rather than scouting only as far as he believed the wagons could travel in a day, he rode much farther. While there was some personal risk, he wanted to see just how far ahead the outlaws were. He reined up quickly, for suddenly there were tracks of a dozen unshod horses. The riders had advanced until they had come together with other riders of unshod horses, and the lot of them had traveled west. Faro followed cautiously, and only when the riders were strung out enough could he again see tracks of shod horses.
Five
shod horses! He rode a little farther, just to be sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him, but the tracks were there. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to meet the wagons. Seeing him coming, they reined up to rest the teams and climbed down from their wagon boxes.
    â€œThere’s trouble ahead,” said Faro. “These
hombres
I’ve been trailin’ rode off with Indians. Two dozen ormore, if I’m any judge. One of the bunch is ridin’ a shod horse.”
    â€œCould be a white renegade,” Dallas Weaver said.
    â€œThat’s what I suspect,” said