shoulder. The man made it around the rocks, but he was out of the fight.
A burst of renewed firing came from the brush and forced both of the Texans to duck. The outlaws used that to cover their retreat. Some of them kept shooting while the rest of the gang dashed for cover. Bo and Scratch had to keep their heads down and managed only a couple of shots to send the men hurrying on their way.
The gang’s horses must have been hidden just around the bend in the trail. Bo heard hoofbeats pound as some of the men galloped down the gulch toward Deadwood. The ones left in the brush broke from cover and ran toward the bend, firing rifles and handguns as they went. Bo got a good enough look at them to see that they had their bandanas pulled up to mask their faces. A couple of the men staggered as the Texans’ bullets found them, but they stayed on their feet and kept running, ducking out of sight around the bend in the trail. More hoofbeats sounded a moment later as the attackers reached their horses and lit a shuck away from there.
Chloride let out a whoop from under the wagon. “We done it!” he yelled. “We fought ’em off!”
“Stay where you are,” Bo called as he saw the old-timer start to crawl out from under the wagon. “We want to make sure they’re all gone before we show ourselves.”
They waited until all the hoofbeats had faded away into the distance, then waited a while after that. Chloride grew impatient and muttered oaths, but the Texans stoically used the time to reload their rifles.
Finally, Bo emerged from the trees and whistled for his horse. As the animal trotted up, Chloride called, “Can I come out now, blast it?”
“Come ahead,” Bo told him. “Just keep your gun handy until Scratch and I have a chance to do a little scouting around.”
Scratch left the rocks on the other side of the creek, called his horse, and rode back across the fast-flowing stream. He said, “I think I winged a couple of those varmints, Bo.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Bo said with a nod. “We’re whittling them down.”
“Not fast enough to suit me,” Chloride said as he stood beside the wagon gripping his old revolver.
The Texans rode up to the bend in the trail and took a look. Nobody shot at them. “Stay here to keep an eye on Chloride and the gold,” Scratch said. “I’ll mosey a ways down the gulch.”
Bo nodded his agreement and waited there while Scratch scouted their route. The silver-haired Texan soon was out of sight. Bo waited tensely for his friend to return . . . or for shots to break out.
His hands tightened a little on the Winchester when he heard a horse coming. Scratch rode into view a moment later and waved his rifle above his head to let Bo know that everything was all right. Bo turned in the saddle and waved to Chloride.
“Come on! The trail is clear!”
Chloride got the wagon moving again. Bo waited for him to catch up, and then they both went on down the trail to join up with Scratch.
“See anything of those owlhoots?” Bo asked.
Scratch shook his head. “Nary hide nor hair. That’s twice we’ve fought ’em off. I reckon they must’ve had things their own way around here for so long they don’t know what to make of it when somebody fights back. Seems like they spook pretty easy.”
“They won’t again,” Bo predicted. “They know what they’re up against now. They’ll be better prepared next time.”
On that cautionary note, Bo, Scratch, and Chloride proceeded on down the gulch toward Deadwood. The wagon couldn’t move very fast. Noon came and went, and a short time after that, they stopped to rest the mule team and eat the food they had brought with them from the mine. The Golden Queen’s cook had prepared them a lunch of thick slices of bread, bacon, and canned tomatoes.
The rest of the trip was surprisingly uneventful. Bo knew the Devils could have prepared another ambush, but evidently that morning’s fight had shaken them enough to make them think twice about that. Around midafternoon, they spotted the smoke rising from Deadwood’s chimneys, and a short time after that, the settlement itself came into view.
People on the boardwalks gawked as the wagon rolled down Main Street, flanked by the two Texans. The vehicle was obviously loaded with gold and bound for the bank. Someone must have run ahead to carry the word because when Chloride brought the wagon to a stop in front of the building, the bank manager, Jerome Davenport, had already stepped out onto the boardwalk to greet them.
Davenport hooked his thumbs in his vest and said, “I heard a rumor that you were working for the Golden Queen now, Coleman. Is that true? Do you really have a shipment of Miss Sutton’s gold in that wagon?”
“What do you think?” Chloride replied as he wrapped the reins around the brake lever. “What do you reckon I did, loaded this here wagon with plain ol’ rocks and brought them in?”
“It’s gold,” Bo said. “We’ll be depositing it, and we’ll want a receipt.”
Davenport nodded curtly. “Of course. I must say, I’m surprised you were able to bring it into town without the Devils trying to hold you up.”
“Nobody said that’s what happened,” Scratch drawled.
The banker frowned in thought as he tried to figure out what Scratch meant. Then Davenport’s eyes widened in surprise as the realization came to him.
“You mean you
Bo dismounted. He looped his horse’s reins around the hitch rail in front of the bank and said, “That’s right. But as you can see for yourself, we’re still alive and the gold is still in the wagon. Now, how about getting some of those clerks of yours to come out here and start unloading the shipment? The sooner that gold’s safely locked up in the vault, the better.”
“Of course, of course,” Davenport muttered. “I just . . . You really mean to say that you fought them off?”
“See for yourself, dagnab it,” Chloride said. “You’re a banker. You ought to recognize gold when you see
