Sidewinders

“We’re sure,” Sue Beth replied with a grim nod. “The Devils make sure we know. Any time they kill somebody, they carve a pitchfork on his forehead, right here.”

She tapped a fingertip against the center of her forehead.

Bo frowned and said, “I’ve heard of people doing things like that, but it’s usually vigilantes who are trying to warn lawbreakers what’s going to happen to them.”

“Same thing, in a way,” Scratch said. “They want to keep folks scared.”

“It’s working,” Sue Beth said as she wiped her hands on her apron again and walked down to the end of the counter. She moved aside a swinging gate there and stepped out. “I want to see what’s happened now.”

Scratch was on his feet. “We’ll join you.”

“But your lunches—”

“They’ll keep,” Bo said. He, Scratch, and Sue Beth headed for the door along with most of the other customers inside the cafe. In a frontier town like Deadwood, any news always attracted a lot of attention.

As they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Bo saw a crowd of people gathering in front of an impressive, two- story frame building across the street. A large sign stuck out from the front of the building above the boardwalk. It read BANK, and in smaller letters below that single word, STEBBINS, POST & CO. People seemed to be clustered around someone. Through a gap in the crowd, Bo caught a glimpse of a short man with a white beard and a mane of equally snowy hair.

Sue Beth saw the man, too, and exclaimed, “That’s Chloride Coleman!”

“Who’s he?” Scratch asked.

“An old-timer who drives for the Argosy Mining Company. I don’t see his wagon anywhere on the street, though.”

“Carries gold shipments, does he?” Bo asked.

“That’s right.”

“And delivers ’em to that bank across the street, I’ll bet,” Scratch said. “Reckon he got held up, Bo?”

“He must have, to cause this much commotion,” Bo said. “You want to go see what we can find out?”

Scratch shrugged. “I’m a mite curious.” He turned to Sue Beth. “You reckon you could put our plates on the stove to stay warm, ma’am?”

“Why do you care about a robbery?” she asked. “It’s no business of yours.” Then she shook her head and went on, “Sorry, I forgot I was talking to Texans.”

Scratch just grinned, and Bo said, “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

They headed across the street to join the crowd that had formed around the old man on the boardwalk. Chloride Coleman wore faded and patched denim trousers, an equally hard-used flannel shirt, and a buckskin vest. An empty holster sagged on his right hip. He had several bloody scratches on the leathery skin of his face and hands and obviously had run into some trouble.

“—all three of ’em dead!” he was saying in a voice that cracked a little with age. “And I come mighty close to sayin’ howdy to Saint Peter my own self!”

“You’re certain it was the Devils of Deadwood Gulch who attacked you?” asked a tall, portly man in a tweed suit. He didn’t have much hair on top of his head, but a pair of huge muttonchop whiskers framed his florid cheeks.

“Devils of Deadwood Gulch, Deadwood Devils, call ’em whatever you want to,” Coleman replied. “It was that same bunch of murderin’ skunks, no doubt about it! I seen ’em carvin’ pitchforks on Turley, Berkner, and poor ol’ Mitch Davis. The bodies are still out there on the trail, along with the wrecked wagon. You can go look for yourself if you want, Mr. Davenport.”

The whiskered man shook his head. “No, I’ll leave it to the undertaker and his helpers to collect the bodies. You can’t blame me for being a bit puzzled, though, Chloride. As far as I know, you’re the first victim of a robbery that the Devils have allowed to remain alive.”

Coleman puffed up and started to sputter. “You’re . . . you sayin’ I was in on it? That I’m workin’ with them no-good murderin’ polecats?”

“No, no, not at all,” Davenport said quickly in the face of the old-timer’s wrath. “As I told you, I’m just puzzled. Why do you think they left you alive?”

“I done told you! That fella who done the carvin’, he was like Satan his own self. He wanted me to come here and tell ever’body in town what happened. He wants ever’body to be scared of that bunch.”

One of the bystanders said, “I sure as blazes am! It’s not safe to travel any of the roads around here anymore.”

“And how can the mines keep going if they can’t get their ore and dust to the bank?” a woman in a sunbonnet asked. “If the mines go under, my husband will be out of a job!”

A wave of angry, agitated muttering rose from the crowd. Davenport lifted his hands and motioned for quiet. When the people had settled down a little, he said, “The mines aren’t going under, and neither are the banks. At least, this one won’t as long as I’m the manager of it!”

“But if somebody doesn’t stop those outlaws—” a man began.

“Someone will stop them,” Davenport insisted. “I’m sure of it. The Black Hills aren’t as lawless as they were four years ago when Deadwood was founded. It’s just a matter of time—”

“Just a matter of time until the Devils kill us all!” another man shouted. That set the crowd off again. Davenport motioned for an end to the hubbub, but the noisy crowd ignored him.

That lasted until a tall, hawk-faced man in a brown suit and Stetson strode up and said in a loud, clear,