William W. Johnstone - Deadwood Gulch (Sidewinders, No. 5)

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

Six sturdy mules pulled the wagon along the trail that followed a winding gulch through the Black Hills of the Dakota Territory. Off to the right of the trail flowed a narrow, brawling creek lined by cottonwood, aspen, and box elders. The pine-covered sides of the gulch rose steeply and cast a pall of gloom over the trail despite the sunny day. Winter wasnt far off, and a chill hung in the air.

Breath fogged in front of the faces of the driver and the three guards on the wagon. The guards wore sheepskin jackets, while the driver was bundled in an old mackinaw. The man on the seat next to the driver had a shotgun across his knees. The two guards in the back of the wagon, with the sacks of gold dust bound for the Stebbins & Post Bank in Deadwood, clutched Winchesters. Deadwood was four miles away along this narrow gulch, and lately every foot of the way had been dangerous. Time was, these runs from the mine to the bank had been made by just two men, a driver and a guard, but with the latest outbreak of lawlessness and violence plaguing the area, the mine owners had increased their precautions.

The driver hoped having three tough men along with him would be enough. He wasnt in any mood to die today, and he dang sure didnt want any devils pitchfork carved into his forehead.

His name was Chloride Coleman. He had followed the lure of gold and silver from one end of the frontier to the other for more than twenty-five years, after first heading for California during the Gold Rush of 49. Since then he had been a lot of places, including the rough mining camp of Deadwood when gold seekers first flooded into the Black Hills. He had spent part of the intervening years searching for his own fortune before finally coming to the realization that he wasnt fated to find it. He could make a living, though, working for men who had been more fortunate.

Cant you get those jugheads moving a little faster, Chloride? Mitch Davis, the guard on the seat beside him, asked. This place gives me the fantods.

Hold your horses, Chloride said. He chuckled. Of course, them aint horses Im drivin, are they?

He turned his head to spit a stream of tobacco juice into the weeds beside the trail. Steaks of brownish-yellow in his white beard testified to the thousands of other times he had done the same thing.

Ill feel better when we get to Deadwood, one of the men in the back said. Chloride didnt know them very well. The one who had spoken was called Turley. His more taciturn companion was Berkner. Like Mitch Davis and Chloride himself, they had come to the Dakota Territory in search of their fortune, only to find that the big mining concerns had gobbled up the best claims already, squeezing out the individual miners. The days of some prospector striking it rich were as dead as Wild Bill Hickok, shot in the head from behind in the Number 10 Saloon about four years earlier.

Davis lifted his shotgun and said, I dont like the looks of that deadfall up ahead. I dont think it was there the last time we came through here. There might be half a dozen of those Devils hiding behind it. Better steer around it as much as you can, Chloride.

Now how am I gonna do that? Chloride asked. The trail goes right beside that big ol tree, and the way the side of the gulch comes crowdin in, there aint no way to go except right past it.

Yeah, well, maybe not, but dont waste any time getting by it. Better whip up that team a little.

Chloride sighed and reached for the whip socketed into a holder next to him. With skill born of long experience, he popped the blacksnake over the heads of the mules and yelled, Gee up, you varmints! Gee up!

The stolid mules leaned into their harness and moved a little faster, but not much.

Keep your guns on that deadfall, Davis told Turley and Berkner. He was nominally in charge of the guards. Both men lifted their rifles to their shoulders and trained the weapons on the huge log lying a short distance to the left of the trail. Davis was right, Chloride thought. Several of the outlaws who called themselves the Deadwood Devils might be hiding behind it, lying in wait to ambush the wagon carrying the gold shipment.

Davis got up on one knee on the seat so he could fire the shotgun over Chlorides head if he needed to. Careful with that, the old-timer urged him as the wagon started past the deadfall. I aint partial to havin greeners go off right next to my ear. Im already deaf enough from old age.

Better deaf than dead, Davis told him. If there are any road agents behind that tree, youll be glad Ive got this shot

He didnt get to finish his sentence, because at that moment a shot rang out, but not from behind the deadfall. Instead it came from the other direction, from the trees on the other side of the creek.

Davis grunted and toppled over, falling against Chloride. He rolled off the startled driver and landed on the floorboards at Chlorides booted feet. Chlorides rheumy eyes widened in shock at the sight of the grisly mess that the back of Mitch Daviss head had turned into. A bullet had blown away a fist-size chunk of his skull and some of the brain underneath.

More shots blasted from across the creek as Turley and Berkner tried to swivel around and return the fire. Chloride slashed frantically at the backs of the mules and shouted at them, trying to get them to break into a run.

Turley and Berkner got several shots off. Flame spouted from the muzzles of their Winchesters. But then Turley slumped back onto the chests that held bags of gold dust and chunks of gold ore. Blood welled from a hole in his chest where bushwhack lead had found him. He dropped his rifle and pawed frantically at the wound for a second before his head slumped back and his eyes began to glaze over in death.

That left just Turley to fight off the attack, and he was badly outnumbered. Several outlaws burst from the trees on horseback and splashed across the creek to give chase to the wagon, which was rattling and bouncing along faster now as Chloride finally got the mules to run. Smoke puffed from the six-guns wielded by the men, who had bandanas pulled up over their faces to conceal their identities.

Chloride yelled encouragement to the remaining guard. Hold em off, Turley!

Get this wagon moving faster! Turley shouted back as he levered another round into the Winchesters chamber. Both men knew the odds of the wagon team being able to outrun the desperadoes horses were mighty slim. The outlaws were closing the gap by the second.

A gurgling cry came from Turley. Chloride glanced over his shoulder and saw the man thrashing around as blood poured from his bullet-ripped throat. Chloride bit back a curse. Turley would be dead in seconds, Davis and Berkner had already crossed the divide, and that left Chloride alone against a horde of bloodthirsty outlaws. For a second he thought about reining in the team, bringing the wagon to a stop, and throwing himself on the mercy of the gang if he turned the gold shipment over to them.

He discarded the idea almost instantly. Those varmints were cold-blooded murderers and had proven that on several occasions in the past. They had earned the nickname of Devils they had given themselves. If he surrendered, theyd just put a bullet in him.

Besides, he was too old and stubborn to quit. Holding the reins in his left hand, he used his right to fumble the old cap-and-ball revolver from the holster at his waist. He twisted around on the seat and lifted the gun, earing back the hammer. It went off with a loud boom as he aimed at the riders thundering along right behind the wagon and pulled the trigger.

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