cleft.
“I knew no good would come from gettin’ mixed up with some greenhorn glory hound,” Scratch muttered as they approached the canyon mouth.
“Maybe he’ll wait,” Bo said.
“You really think so?”
“Well, it depends on whether or not he listens to Olaf.”
“He ain’t showed no signs of it so far,” Scratch pointed out.
“Yeah, I know,” Bo said, and he couldn’t keep a note of worry out of his voice.
The Texans drew their Winchesters and rested them across the saddles as they reached the mouth of the canyon. The wind that whistled down the cleft was bone chilling. Steep, rocky walls rose fifty or sixty feet on both sides of them, and the dark, overcast day meant that a thick gloom clogged the canyon as they proceeded into it. They rode side by side, Bo on the right and Scratch on the left, and each of them watched the rimrock on his side, alert for any sign of an ambush. There were no sounds except the slow, steady hoofbeats of their horses.
They reached the first bend and rode around it. Now they could see another hundred yards or so ahead of them. The canyon floor was empty except for some boulders and stunted bushes here and there along the base of the walls.
“This cut’s liable to zigzag along for a mile or more, without ever runnin’ straight for more’n a hundred yards at a time,” Scratch said. “And then it might run smack-dab into a dead end.”
Bo knew his friend was right. Some geological upheaval in the dim, distant past had created this canyon, possibly at the same time the rest of the Black Hills had risen. He had read about such things in books, and he had seen the results many times with his own eyes.
That cataclysm had left a number of large rocks broken and perched on the rims of both sides of the canyon. Bo eyed them warily as he and Scratch rode past.
“It wouldn’t take much to start an avalanche along here,” he said quietly. “Get a log and lever one or two of those boulders over the edge, and it would pick up plenty more on the way down.”
“Yeah, this place gives me the fantods,” Scratch agreed. “But the Devils came this way. I’m still seein’ sign.”
“Yeah, me, too. Maybe the lieutenant’s right. Maybe their hideout really is up here.”
Scratch grunted. “If that shave tail was ever right about anything, it was a pure-dee accident. I got a hunch that havin’ that old sarge around is the only reason the young fella’s still alive.”
Scratch might be right about that, Bo thought. Unfortunately, Olaf Gustaffson was just a sergeant. When it came down to the nub, Gustaffson had to obey the orders of his superior officer. Holbrook was so bound and determined to catch the Devils and grab some fame and glory—and maybe a promotion—in the process, he might not let Gustaffson continue to influence his decisions.
The canyon continued to twist back and forth, almost as sinuous as a diamondback rattler wriggling its way across the ground. The walls became more sheer and rose even higher by the time Bo and Scratch had penetrated half a mile into the canyon. The shadows thickened even though the sun was high overhead now. That was because the clouds were so thick and threatening. At least they were past the area where the threat of a rockslide loomed, Bo thought.
They reined in for a moment, and Bo asked, “You reckon we ought to go back and fetch the lieutenant and the rest of the patrol?”
“Everything looks clear so far,” Scratch admitted. “Maybe it’d be a better idea if we split up. You can go back and fetch the soldier boys, and I’ll keep headin’ deeper into—”
“Wait a minute,” Bo interrupted. “You hear that?”
Scratch’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened. Then they widened and he let out a curse. “Horses comin’ up the canyon!” he exclaimed. “The dang shavetail got tired o’ waitin’!”
It was true. The faint rataplan of hoofbeats on the rocky ground echoed up the canyon toward the Texans, growing slightly louder with the passing of each second.
Bo started to wheel his horse. “I’d better get back there with them—” he began.
He stopped short as he heard a new sound. It was an ominous, deep-throated rumble, and both Texans instantly knew what it meant.
“Avalanche!” Scratch yelled.
CHAPTER 19
They jerked their horses around and sent the animals galloping back down the canyon. It was clear what had happened: the outlaws had been hidden up on the rimrock, possibly on both sides of the canyon, and had let Bo and Scratch ride past without springing the trap. The Devils were after a bigger payoff than just two Texans.
Then, when Lieutenant Holbrook had led his men up the canyon as well, the outlaws had struck. Scratch had said all along that they weren’t going to any trouble to hide their trail, and now it was obvious why. They had this plan ready to fall back on if their ambush of the night before failed, and Holbrook’s impulsive actions had played right into their hands.
“Dang fool couldn’t wait!” Scratch shouted over the pounding hoofbeats. Bo nodded grimly. The avalanche’s roar was louder now. Bo knew that any men and horses caught in its path wouldn’t stand much of a chance. It was probably too late already to help any of the troopers, but he and Scratch had to try.
They raced around the bends in the canyon at breakneck speed. The terrible rumbling began to subside. Avalanches were horribly destructive but usually didn’t last all that long. This one seemed to be coming to an end.
