to keep anybody from gettin’ suspicious of him.”
“Maybe,” Bo said. “I can’t help but think, though, that Nicholson’s influential enough around here that he could have talked the other owners into waiting if he’d wanted to. When he was talking to the lieutenant, Nicholson looked and sounded like he really wanted Holbrook to be successful in putting a stop to the Devils.”
“We’ve run across hombres before who were good at actin’ all innocent-like when really they were no-good varmints.”
“Shakespeare wrote, ‘A man may smile and smile, and be a villain,’” Bo quoted.
“Ain’t that what I just said? And what if it ain’t Nicholson at all, but somebody else at the Argosy who’s behind it?”
“Like Reese Bardwell,” Bo said.
“He’s the one who’s got the owlhoot brother. He could be workin’ behind Nicholson’s back, tryin’ to get his hands on the Golden Queen. Or maybe he’s just out for a share of the loot.”
Bo nodded. “Could be. Bardwell’s a troublemaker, no doubt about that. I’m not sure he’s a cold-blooded killer, though, brother or no brother.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Sitting in the cold and the dark,” Bo said with a smile, “waiting to see if a bunch of outlaws are going to show up and try to kill us all.”
The Texans took turns standing guard during the night, as they usually did in a potentially dangerous situation like this. Bo stood the first watch, and Scratch took over around midnight.
Bo wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when his friend touched his shoulder, but he was instantly awake. He sat up with the fog from his breath wreathing around his head and reached for the Winchester he had placed on the ground next to his bedroll.
“What is it?” Bo asked in a whisper that couldn’t have been heard more than a few feet away.
“Horses smelled somethin’,” Scratch replied, equally quietly.
“Mountain lion, maybe?”
“They ain’t spooked. I’d say it’s more horses.”
Bo lifted his head to judge the cold wind that blew across the top of the ridge. It was from the northwest, and that meant their horses wouldn’t be able to smell the cavalry mounts, which were picketed several hundred yards away to the east.
Here under the trees, it was too dark for the Texans to see each other, but they had ridden together for so long each of them knew what the other would be doing in these circumstances. Bo found his boots and pulled them on while Scratch ghosted through the trees to a point where he could see the camp.
Bo joined him a moment later. The big fires the troopers had built earlier had died down quite a bit, but they were still visible. Bo saw dark shapes cross between him and the orange glows as the guards Holbrook had posted walked their picket lines.
“You hear any horses earlier?” Bo breathed.
“Nope. But that don’t mean anything. The Devils could’ve dismounted a ways along the ridge and started sneakin’ up on foot.”
Bo knew Scratch was right. Cold-blooded killers could be slipping into position to open fire on the camp right now. As far as anybody knew, the Deadwood Devils numbered around a dozen men, maybe a few more. That wasn’t enough to take on a troop of thirty or more well-armed cavalrymen, even if the soldiers
But if the outlaws could take the camp by surprise and kill some of the troopers in the first volley, that would go a long way toward evening up the odds. Bo and Scratch couldn’t let that happen.
“Let’s make some noise,” Bo said as he lifted his rifle. He had levered a round into the Winchester’s chamber before he ever turned in for the night.
“What if the Devils ain’t around?” Scratch whispered.
“Then we’ll apologize later for disturbing Lieutenant Holbrook’s sleep.” Bo had the rifle at his shoulder now. He pointed the barrel at the sky and cranked off three shots as fast as he could work the lever. Beside him, Scratch did the same thing. The thunderous racket of the shots rolled across the top of the ridge toward the camp.
Then the Texans hit the dirt, just in case some of the startled troopers jumped up and started blazing away in the direction of the shots without knowing what they were shooting at.
Somewhere in the darkness a man’s harsh voice yelled, “Hit ’em!” and tongues of orange muzzle flame licked out from a different clump of trees near the camp. Bo knew that was where the bushwhackers were hidden. He propped himself up on his elbows, lined his sights on those trees, and started firing. Again, Scratch followed suit.
The pickets weren’t sure exactly where to shoot, but they knew they were under attack. They opened fire, the shots from their Springfields snapping out. Since all the soldiers could do was aim at muzzle flashes, some of their shots were directed toward the trees where the ambushers were hidden, while others whipped through the branches and thudded into the trunks in the grove where Bo and Scratch lay. The Texans had known when they opened fire that they ran a risk of being shot by their own allies, but there wasn’t anything they could do about that except stay low.
The troopers who had been sleeping scrambled out of their blankets, lunged from their tents carrying their rifles, and took cover behind the rocks scattered around the camp. Even over the roar of guns, Bo heard Sgt. Olaf Gustaffson bellowing orders. This wasn’t Gustaffson’s first fight. He would know what to do.
Bo wasn’t surprised when the firing from the other clump of trees abruptly stopped. He spotted several dark shapes racing through the shadows, and so did Scratch. The silver-haired Texan exclaimed, “They’re lightin’ a
