Sidewinders by William W. Johnstone Page A

he tried to remember. “Down at the bank, if I recollect right,” he answered. “I think folks said he’d been talkin’ to Jerome Davenport about extendin’ him some money. The Devils had already hit a couple of his shipments, and he was already havin’ trouble payin’ the fellas who work for him.”
    â€œDavenport turned him down?”
    Chloride leaned to the side and spat. “Davenport ain’t got to worry about his heart ever givin’ out. He ain’t got one. I think there’s a poke full of gold dust where it’s supposed to be.”
    Scratch laughed. “Sounds like you ain’t over fond of him.”
    â€œThe varmint said he didn’t suspect me of workin’ with the Devils, but he sure made it sound like that’s what he really thought.”
    â€œThere’s one really good way for you to prove that’s not true,” Bo said. “Help us catch them, and everybody in town will know you’re not crooked, Chloride.”
    â€œYeah, that’s a pretty good idea, all right,” the old-timer said. “Providin’ that we don’t get ourselves shot full of holes doin’ it!”

CHAPTER 6
    The old abandoned shack that Chloride had moved into was one step above a rat hole, but it wasn’t a very big step. The walls were a shaky combination of scrap lumber, tin, and tarpaper. The cold wind penetrated through a number of cracks and gaps. But the roof was still fairly sturdy, Chloride claimed, and he hadn’t fallen through the floor yet. He had a small stove for heat, an old barrel that served as a table and had a candle on it, and a narrow bunk. A rickety shed attached to the side of the shack provided shelter for the Texans’ horses and Chloride’s mule.
    â€œSee? All the comforts of home!” the old-timer declared proudly.
    â€œYeah, Bo and me woke up in a hog pen a while back, so this is better,” Scratch said. “I guess.”
    They spread their bedrolls on the floor and went to sleep, since there was nothing else to do. It was a chilly night, a promise of much colder ones to come, but the Texans were fairly warm in their blankets. During their four decades of drifting, they had spent plenty of nights in places more uncomfortable than this one.
    Despite that, they were both glad to get up the next morning and start moving around again. Stiff muscles protested at first but soon loosened up. Chloride had some coffee and a few stale biscuits. It wasn’t much in the way of breakfast, but he was happy to share with the Texans.
    After they had eaten, they saddled their horses and Chloride lifted an old saddle onto the bony back of his mule. On this cold, clear morning, smoke rose from dozens of chimneys in Deadwood, about half a mile down the gulch from the shack. They would have to come back this way when they set out to pick up the trail of the Deadwood Devils at the site of the latest robbery, but Bo and Scratch wanted to see about getting some of their money back from the livery owner.
    As Esteban Gonzalez had predicted, Hanson was reluctant to turn loose any of the money he had collected from the Texans the day before. “When you make arrangements for accommodations, you’re sorta bound by ’em,” he claimed. “You wouldn’t have wanted me to give you your money back last night and tell you you couldn’t stay here after all, or your horses, either.”
    â€œWe’d understand if there was a good reason,” Scratch said.
    â€œAnd we said you could take out whatever we owe for the grain you gave our horses,” Bo added. “So you won’t be losing any money on the deal.”
    Hanson gave a put-upon sigh and dug a hand into the pocket of his overalls. “I’ll take out for feed and one night’s lodgin’ for the horses, since it was so late when you picked ’em up,” he suggested. “That’s fair, ain’t