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.
