that gold.”
Bo thought about it and nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. We don’t want to put everybody inside the cabin, though. Unless we got all of the outlaws on the first try, they could bottle us up in there. It would be better if we had a couple of men in the cabin and the rest up here on the ridge. There are plenty of rocks to provide cover.”
“That sounds like it could work,” Gustaffson said. “God rest the lieutenant’s soul, but I don’t reckon he knew near as much about tactics as he thought he did.”
Scratch said, “The only way you live through as many fights as Bo and me have is to learn a few things along the way. Either that, or be the luckiest hombres on the face of the earth.”
“A little of both isn’t bad,” Bo added with a smile.
They reined in and dismounted a hundred yards from the edge of the canyon. The Texans and Gustaffson went forward on foot while the rest of the troopers stayed with the horses. The body of Lowell, the unlucky guard, was gone, indicating that the other man left behind had found it, although it was possible that wolves could have dragged it off. There was no sign of that, however.
“The fella’s gonna know something’s wrong,” Scratch said. “He’ll be ready for trouble. Might be keepin’ an eye on the trail through a chink in the wall right now.”
“That’s why we’re not going down that ledge,” Bo said. “You feel like climbing down a rope again?”
Scratch grinned. “Sure. We’ll come up behind the cabin?”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
“What do you need me to do?” Gustaffson asked.
“Wait for Scratch and me to give you the all-clear,” Bo said. When Gustaffson scowled, Bo went on. “I know you want to be in the middle of this, Olaf, but it’s a two-man job, at most.”
“All right,” Gustaffson replied grudgingly. “I suppose there’ll be plenty of fighting later.”
“I think you can count on that,” Bo said.
They fetched Scratch’s rope from his horse and tied one end of it around the trunk of a scrub pine growing fairly close to the edge of the canyon. When Scratch dropped the rest of the lariat over the edge, it fell to within a few feet of the canyon floor. He looked at Bo and asked, “You ready?”
“Yeah. Who’s going first?”
In answer to that, Scratch grasped the rope, sat down on the edge, and turned to lower himself over the brink. He dropped out of sight as he went down the rope hand over hand.
“Keep an eye on that lasso,” Bo told Gustaffson. “We don’t want it starting to fray where it goes over the edge.”
“I’ll watch it,” the non-com promised.
Bo looked over the edge and watched Scratch make the descent. As soon as the silver-haired Texan’s feet were back on the ground, Bo swung himself over the brink and started down. He had never been overly fond of heights and wondered why in blazes he had to be climbing up and down rock walls and ropes all of a sudden like some sort of ape. He didn’t like heights, and he didn’t like boats, either. Solid ground, that was what he wanted under his feet.
It didn’t take long to lower himself to the canyon floor. Scratch waited behind a rock with both of his Remingtons drawn. Bo pulled in a deep breath to steady his nerves and drew his Colt from its holster.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
They trotted across the snowy ground toward the cabin. They were behind the old shack and there were no windows on this side, but the outlaw inside might still catch a glimpse of them through gaps between the logs.
Half a dozen horses were in the corral next to the cabin. Two of them would belong to Lowell and the other man, and the others were probably spare mounts. The Texans were about twenty feet from the cabin when Bo noticed that one of the horses was already saddled, and a couple of others had heavy-looking packs slung over their backs. Instantly, Bo knew what that meant.
Spooked by Lowell’s death, the outlaw who’d been left behind was running out on the Devils, and he was double-crossing them and taking as much of the loot as he could carry, too.
That thought had just gone through Bo’s mind when the man stepped around the front corner of the cabin, staggering a little under the weight of the pack full of gold bars he was carrying. He started toward the corral gate but stopped short at the sight of the Texans.
“Hold it!” Bo shouted.
The outlaw ignored the command. Instead he dropped the pack at his feet and sent his hand stabbing toward the gun on his hip.
CHAPTER 22
That wasn’t a smart thing to do.
The outlaw had barely cleared leather when Bo and Scratch both fired. The Texans hadn’t hesitated because they had any doubts about what needed to be done. This man was part of a gang that had murdered, stolen, and terrorized an entire region. Plain and simple, he deserved to die.
But he deserved to die with a gun in his hand.
Two slugs from Scratch’s Remingtons and a round from Bo’s Colt punched into the man’s chest. The impact lifted him and threw him backward. His revolver went spinning out of his fingers unfired. It thudded to the ground at the same time he did. One leg jerked and kicked and his back arched as blood spouted from the holes in his chest. The blood diminished to trickles as the outlaw sagged and went still. Death had finished claiming him.
