On the canvas of the wagon, not obvious as they had approached, but now clearly visible, were stenciled words:

COLORADO HOME GUARD

“That’s the wagon we’ve been looking for,” Falcon said, dismounting and hurrying over to look into the back. “The guns aren’t here. But I didn’t think they would be.”

“Whoever took ’em, it wasn’t Injuns,” Dorman said. He pointed to the mules. “And as nearly as I can tell, the mules weren’t killed in any sort of a fight. It looks like they have been shot through the head. Don’t think the Indians would have done that.”

“I think you are right. Harris evidently decided he would be better off without the wagon,” Falcon said. “These wagons normally take a team of six, they’ve taken four of the mules with them. Two for each gun.”

“It ain’t goin’ to be hard to follow them,” Dorman said. “Pullin’ them caissons like they are, why, they might as well be leavin’ us maps. Depends on how long a head start they have.”

“From the looks, and the smell of the mules, I would say we are about six or seven days behind them,” Falcon said.

“Seems about right,” Dorman said. “Listen, Falcon, you seen all you need to see here? I got to get away from this stink, else I’m goin’ to start pukin’.”

“I’ve seen all I need to see,” Falcon agreed.

“Let’s get on out of here then.”

Falcon nodded, and the two rode away, following the clear trail left by the gun caissons.

It came up a thunderstorm that afternoon, and as Falcon and Dorman rode through the rain, it slashed against them and ran in cold rivulets off the folds and creases of their ponchos. It blew in sheets in front of them, turned the trail into mud, and whipped into the trees and bushes.Wicked forks of lightning were followed immediately by thunder, snapping shrilly at first, then rolling through the valleys, picking up the resonance of the hollows and becoming an echoing boom.

“The rain is washing the trail away,” Dorman complained. He had to yell to be heard over the storm.

“True,” Falcon called back. “But they were going this way when we lost their trail, and there’s really no other way they can go except straight ahead.”

It stopped raining around nightfall, and though the moon was in the third quarter, it was a surprisingly bright moon that peeked out from behind a large, fluffy, silver cloud. Mud puddles and rivulets of water reflected the glow, helping to provide enough illumination to allow the two men to proceed without danger of misstep in the dark. They continued on until about ten p.m., then tied down for the night.

May 26, 1876

When Clete Harris awoke that morning, he saw Cut Nose and at least thirty other Indians standing there, looking down at him.

“What the hell?” he shouted in a loud, startled voice. “Garon! Bryans! Richland! Wake up!”

“Damn!” Garon said, waking then to see the array of Indians.

“Bryans, I thought you were keeping guard,” Harris said.

“I was,” Bryans answered. “But at four, I turned it over to Richland.”

“You have Geetleen guns?” Cut Nose asked.

“Gatling guns, yeah, I’ve got two of them,” Harris said.

“I want.”

“Well, that’s why we come up here, Chief. We brought them to you.” He pointed to the two guns. “Do you have any money?”

Cut Nose looked at one of the other Indians, who walked back to his horse, then brought two cloth bags. He emptied the bags onto the blanket Harris had been sleeping on. The contents were a mixture of gold coins and gold nuggets. Even the quickest estimate convinced Harris that there was more money here than he had anticipated. So much that he didn’t even bring up the idea of charging more for the ammunition.

“It is not as much money as I wanted, but it will do,” he said, not wanting to let on how pleased he really was with the amount. “But we brought the guns here, so they are yours.”

“You show how to use,” Cut Nose said.

“Yeah, all right,” Harris said.

Opening the box on the caisson of one of the guns, he took out an empty magazine, then showed it to Cut Nose.

“This is called a magazine,” he said.

Opening one of the cases of ammunition, he took out a handful of bullets and started sticking them down into the magazine.

“Before you can shoot the gun, you have to fill the magazine with bullets. Like this.” He demonstrated by pushing several down into the magazine.

“Next, you stick it down in here like this, point at what you want to shoot”—he aimed the gun at a small bush —“then turn this crank.”

Harris turned the crank rapidly, spinning the six barrels. As each barrel came under the firing pin, it fired the rounds in rapid sequence.

The gun roared, fire leaped out from the end of the barrel, and the small shrub that Harris had selected as a target, began disintegrating as the stream of heavy fifty-caliber bullets whipped through the branches.

“Ayeee!” several of the Indians shouted at the demonstration.

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