Devil's Canyon

Prologue

Santa Fe, New Mexico. August 1, 1870.

It ain’t hard to spot a galoot that’s spent all his days lookin’ at the stinkin’ end of a mule, said the big man with a black, bushy beard. His face gits to lookin’ just like that mule’s behind.

He sat across the table from Faro Duval, a teamster from Independence, Missouri, who had just won his fourth pot and ended the game.

Juno Shankler, said the barkeep, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun, you ain’t startin’ no fight in here. Git up and git out.

Faro’s fellow teamsters—Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver—had their backs to the wall, their hands on the butts of their Colts.

Faro, Dallas said, back off. He makes a move, we’ll fill him full of lead. Lay down that scattergun, barkeep. If anything’s to be settled, we’ll settle it outside.

You got it, mule jockeys, said Shankler. One at a time, by God, or all at once.

I stomp my own snakes, Faro said. If anybody needs help, it’ll be you.

Slowly the barkeep lowered the shotgun, as Faro backed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. When he reached the door, he nodded to his three companions. While Faro stood there, his hand on the butt of his holstered Colt, Shanghai, Tarno, and Dallas filed out of the saloon. Faro then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Don’t be a damn fool, Shankler, said a patron who had seen the play. "You’re callin’ out an hombre with the bark on. He ain’t like the glory-hungry kids you’re used to."

Mind your own damn business, Hugo, Shankler said.

Shankler stepped out the saloon door onto the boardwalk. Faro leaned against a hitch rail on the other side of the street. Faro’s three companions stood aside, out of the line of fire. Shankler hitched up his gun belt and tilted his hat over his eyes.

There’s still time to back off, Shankler, said Faro.

I could say the same fer you, Shankler said. I just don’t think you’re man enough to take me, bucko.

When you’re ready, then, said Faro.

Shankler drew first, and his gun was only half out of his holster when Faro’s lead hit him just above the left pocket of his shirt. He stumbled back against the saloon door and it opened, allowing him to collapse on the floor. Men who had been watching out the window of the saloon gathered around.

Old Juno’s been askin’ fer that, somebody said. He’s always been long on guts an’ short on judgment.

Somebody git the sheriff, said the barkeep. I want his carcass took out, an’ I ain’t wantin’ it said he was shot in here.

The sheriff arrived in due time. He was in the saloon only a few minutes when he went looking for Faro Duval. Faro had remained standing where he had been when he had been forced to shoot Shankler. His three companions had moved in behind him.

You got witnesses a-plenty, said the lawman. I’m Sheriff Easton. Who are you?

I’m Faro Duval. These are my partners, Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver. We’re not wanted and we’re not huntin’ anybody. We drove in four wagon loads of freight from Independence, and we’ll be goin’ back there, soon as we scare up some freight to take with us.

I’m some relieved to hear that, said Easton. There’s others around here that’s of the same mind as Juno. I’d not want them testing you.

That’s entirely up to them, Faro said. I take no pleasure in killin’ a man, but some won’t settle for anything less.

Then take my advice and stay out of the saloons, said the lawman.

Easton started back to the saloon just as a tall man in miner’s clothes stepped out on the boardwalk.

Wait up, gents, he said. I want to talk to you.

Faro and his companions waited, and when he was near enough, the stranger spoke again.

I’m Levi Collins. I gathered from what I heard that you men are teamsters.

We are, said Faro. We just brought four wagon loads of freight from Independence, and we’re lookin’ for some freight bound for there. I’m Faro Duval, and my partners are Shanghai Taylor, Tarno Spangler, and Dallas Weaver. What can we do for you?

Collins rested his eyes on each of them for a moment, liking what he saw. They stood over six feet, Faro and Shanghai with dark hair, while Tarno and Dallas had hair the color of wheat straw. To a man, they were dressed like cowboys, from their wide-brimmed hats to their undershot, high-heeled boots. Collins judged them all less than twenty-five, and all four carried tied-down Colts. Collins spoke.

It’s near suppertime. I’m buying, if you’ll listen to what I have to say. I may have some work for you.

"You don’t look like an hombre needin’ four loads of freight hauled to Independence," said Dallas.

Collins laughed. To the contrary, the hauling I have in mind will take you west, but the reward will be great.

We’ll listen, Faro said, but I won’t promise any more than that.

That’s all I ask, said Collins.

He led the way to a cafe, and men were already pointing to Faro as a result of his having gunned down Juno Shankler. They took their seats near the back of the cafe, and Collins spoke again.

You’re mighty sudden with a pistol, Mr. Duval. Do the rest of you…

His voice trailed off, for the eyes of the four men had suddenly grown cold.

I…I didn’t mean that like it probably sounded, said Collins. What I should have said is that the journey I am about to propose will take us through Ute country, and how handy a man is with a gun could mean the difference between living and dying.

We manage to protect ourselves and our freight, Tarno Spangler said.

Yes, said Shanghai Taylor, and in case you’re wondering, we can carry our weight with Winchesters, too.

Collins laughed. That’s exactly what I was wondering. I don’t have to tell you that, during an Indian attack, it’s important to pick off as many as possible before they get in close with their arrows.

Now that you’ve got our attention, said Faro, why don’t you lay the rest of your cards on the table?

I aim to, Collins replied. Isaac Puckett, Felix Blackburn, Josh Snyder, and me have a gold claim on the Sevier River, in southwestern Utah. We’re lookin’ for teamsters with the sand to wagon in supplies, and when we have enough ore, haul it out.

Whoa, said Dallas. I seem to recall there was once a trade route through there, to California. That country’s got more canyons and arroyos than Kansas has prairie dogs, and it’s nigh impossible for anything to get through there, except mules.

If we was goin’ all the way to California, I’d have to agree, Collins said, but takin’ care, a good teamster can get a wagon as far as our claim on the Sevier River.

Givin’ you the benefit of the doubt, said Faro, how far would that be?

Five hundred miles, Collins replied.

My God, said Shanghai, and there’s hostile Utes between here and there?

Entirely too damned many, Collins said. The canyons and arroyos, when they’re not flooded, are prime prospects for an Indian ambush.

For a gent hopeful of hirin’ teamsters, you ain’t painted a very rosy picture, said Tarno.

I didn’t intend to, Collins replied. I’m not one to mislead a man.

So far, said Faro, that’s the biggest thing in your favor. As a rule, we don’t look for work that appears easy. If it was, either it wouldn’t pay worth a damn, or everybody would be clamorin’ for it. Pay-wise, what are you offering?

A thousand dollars a man for all of you, Collins said.

If we was just haulin’ in your supplies, then turnin’ around and bringin’ out your ore, that’s a fair price, said Faro, "but from what you’ve said, you have considerably more than that in mind. Am I right, when I say you have yet to work the mine, before there is any ore?"

You are correct, Collins said. Before I come here to buy supplies and to try and hire some teamsters, my partners and me reckoned we’d have to sweeten the pot. Here’s what we come up with.

From an inside coat pocket, he removed a sheet of paper which he unfolded and gave to Faro. After studying it, he passed it around the table to his three companions. Each of them read it, and Shanghai passed it back to Collins. Faro spoke.

You’re offering a quarter-share of your claim to us, for our services, then.

That’s right, said Collins, and them services would include takin’ the time for us to work the mine, to produce some ore. You’d likely be there until spring, at least.

"Madre mía, Dallas said, and how are we supposed to keep ourselves occupied for all them months?"

You likely could shorten that time, if you help us work the claim, said Collins, or if that don’t appeal to you, there’s hostile Utes to be shot.

By God, Tarno said, "you do make it sound interesting. Was it just me, I’d likely go along with you, but these other hombres…"

"These other hombres have another question, said Faro. How do we know we won’t break our backs on a hard-scrabble claim for a year, shootin’ hostile Utes in between, only to have this claim come up dry, without enough gold to fill a tooth?"

Collins laughed. I expected that.

He looked carefully around, and when it appeared nobody was watching, removed a small canvas sack from his coat pocket. He then removed his hat, and turning it upside down on the table, dumped the contents of the sack into it. There was a dozen or more hunks of rock, each of them shot full of thin veins of gold. Faro hefted one, and found it predictably heavy.

My God, Tarno said, "that’d put the Lost Dutchman to shame. There’s more?"

Yes, said Collins, "and to answer your next question, we don’t know exactly how much more."

I’ve done some prospectin’ in my time, Shanghai said, and mostly there’s just two kinds of gold to be found. There’s dust and nuggets, generally washed down from a higher elevation, and you may poke around for the rest of your days, without findin’ the source. Then there’s the other kind—like this—that’s been dug from a vein.

Yeah, said Dallas, but that vein may pinch out after a few feet.

That’s always a possibility, Collins conceded, but this comes from just one of many such veins.

If there’s more of this, said Faro, you have a bonanza. Have you registered the claim and had the ore assayed?

No, Collins replied, and I have my reasons. We don’t want to start a gold rush, because we don’t know where this claim will take us, and fightin’ the Utes is plenty bad enough, without havin’ to shoot claim jumpers. We figure to work the claim for a year. If there’s plenty more gold, then we’ll register the claim and stick with it until she runs dry. But as you can see, it’s rich enough that a year’s worth of diggin’ can set us all up for the rest of our lives.

The waiter arrived with their food, and Collins quickly swept the gold-laden hat off the table and into his lap. Collins had said just enough, and they proceeded to eat. Not until they were drinking final cups of coffee did anybody speak.

Collins, said Faro, "if there’s more gold where that came from, the proposition you just made us is beginnin’ to seem worth the risk. I’m speaking for myself, now. Each of my amigos will make his own decision."

Count me in, Shanghai said.

Same here, said Tarno.

I’ll go, Dallas said, but if it turns out this claim’s been salted, just to lure us into haulin’ supplies five hundred miles through the devil’s backyard, then I’ll get mean.

Collins laughed. I don’t blame you, my friend, but you have nothing to worry about. Do you think I’d be spending every dollar we own for supplies, and then hauling them five hundred miles into the mountains, if there wasn’t some reward?

He has something there, Dallas, said Faro. Collins, do you honestly believe you’ll need four wagon loads of supplies to last a year?

Yes, Collins replied, and I just hope that’ll be enough. We have four pack mules and our horses, and there are your teams. They’ll need grain at least twice a week, maybe every day, when snow flies.

Maybe you’re right, said Faro. Besides our teams, we each have a horse.

We’re likely to need one wagon just for shells for our Colts and Winchesters, Tarno said. All the gold in Utah won’t be worth a damn, if them Utes attack and we discover we just opened our last tin of shells.

I’m taking all that into account, said Collins. There’s virtually no game, especially in winter, so everything will have to be freighted in.

One thing bothers me, Faro said. "There’s always a bunch of hombres around the saloons and mercantiles that take an almighty lot of interest in other folks’ business. When you take to buyin’ supplies and ammunition by the wagon load, that’s bound to arouse the curiosity of somebody. Like you said, a man don’t spend that kind of money, unless he’s got ideas of recoverin’ it, with interest. I’d not be surprised if we don’t have to ventilate some claim jumpers pronto."

I hadn’t considered that, Collins said, but you could be right. We’re going to need maybe a wagon load of dynamite, and that’s enough to stir up some interest.

My God, yes, said Tarno. That’s enough dynamite to blow up all of Utah.

It won’t be too much, Collins said. When you see the claim, and what we must move to reach the gold, you’ll understand. Now, to prove my good intentions, I want all of you to fill in your names as one-quarter owners to our strike.

I reckon we’ll have plenty of time for that, said Faro.

No, Collins insisted, I want all of you to begin thinking of yourselves as owners.

Have it your way, said Faro. You’re a trusting man, Collins.

To the contrary, Collins said, I prefer to think of myself as a good judge of character. I watched you playing poker in the saloon. The man who taunted you—that you had to shoot—had been cheating. You could have called his hand, shot him, and been without fault, but you didn’t. Not until he forced you, and even then, you didn’t want to kill him. It takes a man to forgive a lesser man his faults, to accept his insults without returning them in kind.

All of us were with General Lee, said Faro, and we’ve seen enough dying to last us a lifetime. I’d never shoot a man for shootin’ off his mouth, but when he pulls a gun, he’d better be almighty fast, because that’s where my patience ends. Now when do you aim to start buyin’ those supplies?

First thing tomorrow, Collins said. Maybe I can get to the mercantiles before the hangers-on show up.

We’ll look for you there, then, said Faro. Soon as you’ve made your best deals, we’ll start loadin’. I hope you have no preference as to loading, because we do.

You have the experience, Collins said. Load the wagons as you see fit. I have only one request. Allow some room in each of the wagons for some dynamite.

I reckon you have a reason for that, said Faro.

Yes, Collins replied. It’ll be a rough trail, and explosives can be touchy. If all the dynamite’s on one wagon, and it blows, then we’re all out of dynamite.

We’re also minus a teamster, his teams, and a wagon, said Tarno.

Yes, Collins said. That too.

Sante Fe, New Mexico. August 2, 1870.

Collins started with four barrels of flour, and one was loaded on each wagon.

"I hope one of your amigos can make biscuits, said Shanghai. None of us is worth a damn at it."

You’re in luck, Collins said. "Perhaps I should say we’re in luck. Felix Blackburn, one of my partners, once was a cook in New Orleans."

Cooked for one of them fancy hotels, I reckon, said Tarno.

No, Collins said. He killed a man over a saloon girl and spent two years in jail. He learned to cook while he was there.

"Sounds like our kind of hombre, said Dallas. After the war, we was all goin’ back to Texas and rustle cattle, but the varmints wasn’t worth nothin’ unless they was drove all the way to Kansas, to the railroad."

Collins laughed, uncertain as to how much of what he was hearing was guarded truth, or simply cowboy humor.

I’d suggest you save the dynamite and ammunition until last, Faro said. That’s the two things that’ll likely stir the most interest. We ought to be as close as we can to pullin’ out of here before anybody begins to wonder what we’re up to.

But as the day wore on, it soon became apparent that four wagons simply would not accommodate all that Collins considered necessary.

He’s figurin’ on an almighty lot of dynamite, said Shanghai.

Too damn much dynamite, Tarno agreed.

But we can’t be sure of that, said Faro. He’s familiar with the claim, so we’ll have to concede that he knows what he’s doing.

One thing he’s figured all wrong, Dallas said. We need a fifth wagon.

Well, I hope he has an answer to that, said Faro, "because I don’t. Even if we had the wagon, we have no mules, and we all know there’s none for sale."

Well, hell, Tarno said, let’s give up this fool idea of goin’ to Utah after gold ore. We could get rich, drivin’ mule herds from Independence to Santa Fe.

You should have thought of that yesterday, said Faro. We’ve given our word.

Yeah, Dallas said, and there’ll still be a mule shortage in Santa Fe next year.

We either tell Collins he’s a wagon shy, or let him figure it out for himself, Tarno said. What’s it gonna be?

I’ll talk to him, said Faro. Maybe he can cut back on something.

But that was the last thing Collins had in mind.

I don’t want to question your judgment, Collins said, and I don’t doubt it when you say we’re running out of wagon space, but we’ll need everything I’m planning to buy. I have the money to buy a wagon, necessary harness, and teams, and I’ve been a teamster in my time. See if there’s a wagon and teams for sale anywhere in Sante Fe.

Faro visited every stable and wagon yard to no avail. He was about to return to the mercantile and tell Collins the situation was hopeless, when he rode past a saloon. Behind it was a wagon, with mules hitched to it. Faro dismounted and entered the saloon. It was midday, and there were few patrons.

There’s mules and a wagon out back, said Faro. I’d like to talk to the owner.

That’s me, said a man who had all the earmarks of a professional gambler. I’m Hal Durham.

I’m Faro Duval, and I need mules and a wagon. There’s none to be had, except for yours. Are they for sale?

I’m afraid not, Durham said. Sorry.

It was his right not to sell, but Faro didn’t like the looks of him. He was dressed all in black, like an undertaker or circuit-riding preacher, and on his feet were gaiters, instead of boots. His flat-crowned black Stetson had a silver band encircling it, there was a flaming red sash about his middle, and a silver watch chain draped over one side of his vest.

God, said one man to another, the medicine show must be comin’. Damned if the dancin’ bear ain’t already here.

His companion flipped the brim of Durham’s hat, and when it fell to the floor, put his foot on it. The pair of them laughed.

I’ll ask you only once, Durham said. Pick up my hat, dust it off, and place it on my head.

Haw, haw, said his antagonist. When hell freezes.

Durham’s right hand moved like a striking rattler, and when the brass knucks struck the other man’s jaw, he went down like a clubbed steer. His companion reached for his gun but he wasn’t quick enough. The brass knucks slammed into his jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.

Here, the barkeep shouted, no fighting in here.

Friends of the two felled men were trying to revive them.

Hey, somebody said, these gents is got busted jaws. Look how they’re hangin’.

I ain’t takin’ no responsibility for this, the barkeep shouted. Somebody git the law in here.

Sheriff Easton arrived, studied the situation, and turned to the barkeep.

He done it, Sheriff, said the barkeep, pointing to Durham.

Done what? Easton demanded. I didn’t hear no shots.

Busted their jaws, said the barkeep. Maybe kilt ’em.

The two on the floor started it, Sheriff, Faro said. "This hombre slugged them."

You again, said Easton. What’s your stake in this?

I told you I was leaving town, Faro said, and I am. I needed another teamster, and I’m hirin’ this gent. He’ll be leaving town as I do.

Him? the lawman said. He’s a teamster?

Hell, said the barkeep, he’s a jackleg gambler, and he ain’t a very good one. Lock him up, Sheriff.

I can’t see he’s violated any law, Easton said. You aim to press charges?

Well, I…

If he’s leavin’ town, said the sheriff, that’s good enough for me. What about it?

You heard the gentleman, Durham said haughtily. I am working for him. Shall we be going, sir?

Yes, said Faro. We have wagons to load.

The two men on the floor sat up, shaking their heads. The unruffled Durham stepped out the door, and Faro followed.

Chapter 1

You take a lot for granted, my friend, Durham said, when he and Faro had left the saloon. I told you the wagon and mules aren’t for sale.

I seem to recall you having mentioned that, said Faro, so I got you an invitation to leave town. Then, when you’re far enough out in the brush and cactus, I’ll just shoot you and take the teams and wagon.

Durham laughed. A man after my own heart. It takes one with unconventional ways to appreciate them in another. Not that I care a damn, but why the urgent need for my wagon and teams?

My three pards and I have taken on a hauling job requiring five wagons, said Faro. There’s not a wagon or mule to be had in all of Santa Fe.

I wouldn’t know about that, Durham replied. I acquired my teams and wagon while I was in Texas. A friendly wager turned serious, and I relieved a gentleman’s financial embarrassment by accepting his mules and wagon.

You’re a gambler, then, said Faro.

Any objection to that?

I reckon not, Faro said. I set in on a game occasionally. It’s a cut or two above stealing.

A man wins too often, said Durham, and it leads to a misunderstanding. There was an unfortunate soul killed yesterday evening, over a game, I hear.

Yeah, Faro said, I heard about that. Every man has his price, Durham. What will it take to separate you from that wagon and mules?

Like I told you, said Durham, they’re not for sale. When I leave here, I’m going on to California, and I’ll be needing them.

Really? Faro said. What do you know about the country west of here?

Nothing, said Durham.

Then you should, Faro said. It’s all but impassable, even for experienced teamsters, and you’d be better off with a good saddle horse.

Oh, I have a horse, said Durham. He follows the wagon on a lead rope. I kind of like the wagon.

Durham, Faro said, this hauling job of ours will take us five hundred miles west of here. In the old days, that used to be a trade route to California. What would it take for us to hire the use of your wagon for a load of supplies as far as we’ll be going?

I’d have to think about it, said Durham. A loaded wagon would slow me down.

Oh, hell, Faro said, "the damn wagon empty will slow you down to a crawl."

I’ll consider it, then, said Durham. When will you be leaving?

At dawn tomorrow, Faro said. We’ll be at the mercantile a while longer, should you change your mind.

Durham said nothing, and Faro left him standing before one of the many saloons in Santa Fe. A man who had been following Faro and Durham came on down the boardwalk, and ignoring Durham, entered the saloon. Durham waited a moment, making sure nobody was watching, and then entered the saloon.

A bottle, Durham said to the barkeep.

Taking his bottle, Durham looked around the dim interior of the saloon. It was still early, and there were only two or three other patrons. The seedy-looking stranger who had entered ahead of Durham sat at a corner table, and Durham