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.
