Davis lifted his shotgun and said, “I don’t like the looks of that deadfall up ahead. I don’t think it was there the last time we came through here. There might be half a dozen of those Devils hiding behind it. Better steer around it as much as you can, Chloride.”
“Now how am I gonna do that?” Chloride asked. “The trail goes right beside that big ol’ tree, and the way the side of the gulch comes crowdin’ in, there ain’t no way to go except right past it.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not, but don’t waste any time getting by it. Better whip up that team a little.”
Chloride sighed and reached for the whip socketed into a holder next to him. With skill born of long experience, he popped the blacksnake over the heads of the mules and yelled, “Gee up, you varmints! Gee up!”
The stolid mules leaned into their harness and moved a little faster, but not much.
“Keep your guns on that deadfall,” Davis told Turley and Berkner. He was nominally in charge of the guards. Both men lifted their rifles to their shoulders and trained the weapons on the huge log lying a short distance to the left of the trail. Davis was right, Chloride thought. Several of the outlaws who called themselves the Deadwood Devils might be hiding behind it, lying in wait to ambush the wagon carrying the gold shipment.
Davis got up on one knee on the seat so he could fire the shotgun over Chloride’s head if he needed to. “Careful with that,” the old-timer urged him as the wagon started past the deadfall. “I ain’t partial to havin’ greeners go off right next to my ear. I’m already deaf enough from old age.”
“Better deaf than dead,” Davis told him. “If there are any road agents behind that tree, you’ll be glad I’ve got this shot—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because at that moment a shot rang out, but not from behind the deadfall. Instead it came from the other direction, from the trees on the other side of the creek.
Davis grunted and toppled over, falling against Chloride. He rolled off the startled driver and landed on the floorboards at Chloride’s booted feet. Chloride’s rheumy eyes widened in shock at the sight of the grisly mess that the back of Mitch Davis’s head had turned into. A bullet had blown away a fist-size chunk of his skull and some of the brain underneath.
More shots blasted from across the creek as Turley and Berkner tried to swivel around and return the fire. Chloride slashed frantically at the backs of the mules and shouted at them, trying to get them to break into a run.
Turley and Berkner got several shots off. Flame spouted from the muzzles of their Winchesters. But then Turley slumped back onto the chests that held bags of gold dust and chunks of gold ore. Blood welled from a hole in his chest where bushwhack lead had found him. He dropped his rifle and pawed frantically at the wound for a second before his head slumped back and his eyes began to glaze over in death.
That left just Turley to fight off the attack, and he was badly outnumbered. Several outlaws burst from the trees on horseback and splashed across the creek to give chase to the wagon, which was rattling and bouncing along faster now as Chloride finally got the mules to run. Smoke puffed from the six-guns wielded by the men, who had bandanas pulled up over their faces to conceal their identities.
Chloride yelled encouragement to the remaining guard. “Hold ’em off, Turley!”
“Get this wagon moving faster!” Turley shouted back as he levered another round into the Winchester’s chamber. Both men knew the odds of the wagon team being able to outrun the desperadoes’ horses were mighty slim. The outlaws were closing the gap by the second.
A gurgling cry came from Turley. Chloride glanced over his shoulder and saw the man thrashing around as blood poured from his bullet-ripped throat. Chloride bit back a curse. Turley would be dead in seconds, Davis and Berkner had already crossed the divide, and that left Chloride alone against a horde of bloodthirsty outlaws. For a second he thought about reining in the team, bringing the wagon to a stop, and throwing himself on the mercy of the gang if he turned the gold shipment over to them.
He discarded the idea almost instantly. Those varmints were cold-blooded murderers and had proven that on several occasions in the past. They had earned the nickname of Devils they had given themselves. If he surrendered, they’d just put a bullet in him.
Besides, he was too old and stubborn to quit. Holding the reins in his left hand, he used his right to fumble the old cap-and-ball revolver from the holster at his waist. He twisted around on the seat and lifted the gun, earing back the hammer. It went off with a loud boom as he aimed at the riders thundering along right behind the wagon and pulled the trigger.
None of the outlaws even slowed down.
Because Chloride was turned around on the seat, he didn’t see the sharp bend in the trail coming up as it followed the winding course of the creek. The mules didn’t slow down as they raced around the turn. Chloride felt the wagon lurch and sway underneath him. Something in its underpinning gave way with a loud snap, and Chloride yelled as he suddenly found himself sailing through the air. The wagon overturned with a crash behind him.
Branches clawed at his face as he landed in a thick clump of brush. That was probably all that saved him from a broken leg at best or a broken neck at worst. The impact knocked the breath out of him. He lay there unable to move, unable to do anything except gasp for air. That probably saved his life, too, because the outlaws’ guns continued to roar and bullets whipped through the brush all around him and just over his head.
Chloride squeezed his eyes shut. He and the Good Lord weren’t exactly on the best of terms, due to Chloride’s fondness for whiskey, cards, and, when he was younger, wicked women, but with all that lead flying through the air, the old-timer didn’t hesitate to offer up a plea for help to
“That’s enough!” a man ordered. “Hold your fire, blast it!”
“But the driver fell off the wagon and landed in that brush,” another man protested as the guns fell silent.
“I saw what happened,” the first man said. “He probably broke his neck when he landed, and even if he didn’t, you’ve thrown enough lead in there to turn him into a sieve. Let’s go on about our business.”
Chloride held his breath now, even though he felt like he was half-suffocating from lack of air. He knew that if they heard him gasping, he’d get a bullet in a hurry.
At the same time, he knew he couldn’t stay here. The outlaws might take it into their heads at any second to search the brush and make sure he was dead. Moving slowly and as quietly as possible, he began working his way backward, inching along so he wouldn’t cause the branches to wave around and give away his position. It was
